Under the Spotlight
by Stefne990
Summary: Oswald Cobblepot has just become the new owner of Fish Mooney's club, but things aren't going well. Butch suggests finding new entertainment to bring in the crowds. The club becomes an overnight success! But Oswald never could've predicted how involved he would be in one singer's life...Updates Wed & Sat/Sun...Trigger warning: rated M for abuse, gore, sexual content and self harm.
1. Chapter 1 - The Knick Knacks

Trigger warning: rated M for domestic abuse and violence, graphic violence, sexual content and self harm.

Taking place after season 1, episode 17, The Red Hood

* * *

Chapter 1 - The Knick Knacks

* * *

The hot water darkened slowly in the teacup, the teabag bobbing along the edge. Oswald twirled its string between his fingers thoughtfully, an anxious pit rising in his stomach. Although it was still early morning, the emptiness of his club only fueled his anxiety. The tip of his shoe tapped the wall of the bar rhythmically, waiting for his tea.

It had been weeks since Don Falcone had given Fish Mooney's club to him. He had been unbelievably grateful to his Don to trust him enough for the job and he had even been a little excited for the change in scenery. But business was not booming. Business was in a rapid tailspin of disaster.

He dunked the teabag in the water, up and down, up and down.

The comedian that was supposed to begin performing twenty minutes ago never showed and Oswald didn't have the energy to care. So, he stared at the empty stage, sparkling from the neon blue umbrella against the back wall. A naked microphone stand stood at the front, an empty chair seated behind it. The tables were aglow with small, dim lanterns at their center, and were just as empty. Even his mother hadn't come by to visit in days.

The front door opened, blaring morning light that swallowed the entranceway. Oswald perked up. Finally, a patron was here! But the happiness burst when he saw who it was.

"Morning," Butch offered, shouldering off his wool coat and slipping off his gloves. His nose and ears were pink from the harsh wind's autumn bite. When he noticed Oswald's half-hearted wave of his hand in greeting, he cautiously asked, "What happened?"

"Nothing happened, that's the problem," Oswald sighed, testing a sip of his drink. He'd wait another minute for it to soak. "I thought you were to help me with his place."

"We just got the booze back. Success isn't going to happen overnight." Butch patted him on the shoulder. The gesture left a soft throb in Oswald's back.

"Then what do you propose we do?" The Penguin's icy eyes pierced through the thug as he walked around the bar and poured himself a drink. "Clearly my ideas have no lasting positive impression."

Butch took a sip and, without hesitation, said, "We need better entertainment. If the entertainment is wrong, then people have no reason to come." He eyed the deserted stage. He had hated most of the people Oswald had hired, especially the ventriloquist. The puppet's bulging, ever-staring eyes still gave him shivers. He could kill a man with no problem but puppets… A quiver ran up his spine.

Oswald took another testing sip of his drink. Maybe the tea had just gone bad. He sighed and accepted the off taste for what it was. "Alright, new entertainment." He pulled the teabag from the cup and placed it on the cloth napkin next to it. "Any suggestions?" He took a longer sip, grimacing softly.

Butch finished his drink in one lasting gulp. "No more puppets."

Oswald rolled his eyes. "Yes, yes, fine."

"I think we should try more musical acts. Maybe some with more," he raised his fist, thrusting it outwards, "more oomph."

"More oomph?" Oswald raised a brow, staring at him with contempt.

"You know, like the kids like these days. Rock 'n roll, electric guitars and bass drums."

Oswald's cheeks slightly puffed to hold back a laugh. "You're not that much older than I am. Why are you acting like you are?"

"All I'm saying is we need more life in this place. It's being killed from the inside out." From Oswald's reaction to his own management, Butch quickly added, "You know what I mean."

"Yes, I know what you mean." Oswald swallowed down the rest of his tea, placing the bag back inside and the napkin thrown over it all. He wasn't too favorable toward rock and roll, at least not the heavier side of it. It all seemed too unorganized to be considered music. It just sounded like noise. But if Butch, someone who had been in the clubbing scene for almost a decade, thought it was a good idea, he'd be a fool not to at least consider it.

"We can have auditions if it'll make you feel better." Butch rinsed his glass in the sink under the counter and left it to be washed. "I knew a few people that Fish rejected that you may be interested in."

"Auditions would be best," Oswald agreed, then contemplated whether to close the club for the day for it or not. He took another look around and sighed. The place would be empty anyway, may as well as have the advantage of privacy. Maybe he could squeeze in a nap to calm is nerves. "Send out word today. We'll hold them tomorrow afternoon."

* * *

A surprising amount of people filled the main room of the club, both bands and solo artists lugging their instruments at their sides. Oswald and Butch sat at the last table in the back, a list of names in front of them. The stage before them was already equipped with a drumset, electric keyboard, three amplifiers and three mic stands. Oswald sipped from a glass of red wine while Butch stood and addressed the crowd.

"Alright, I'll make this short and sweet," his voice roared over the shushed group. All their eyes were on him, except for a few that stared at Oswald's odd appearance. But the Penguin ignored them. He should've kicked them out for being disrespectful, after all he would be the one employing them, but the situation was too dire for him to care.

"One song per group, no longer than five minutes," Butch continued. "When you finish, please exit the club. If Mr. Cobblepot likes you," he gestured to Oswald, who nodded his head in acknowledgment, "you'll be hearing from us within the next day or so. Thanks for coming and let's start with," Butch picked up the paper and read the first name, sitting down. "The Knick Knacks?" He looked around the room and a group of teenagers sitting near the stage rose from their seats.

Oswald rolled his eyes and took a longer sip from his glass. "We should've established an age limit. They look like they could still be in high school."

"Probably," Butch groaned. "But we need all the help we can get. Who knows? They could be good."

It didn't take long for the band set up their equipment. The first note the band strung was screeching and it echoed off the walls with such force. The singer, who had several piercings on his lips alone, screamed into the microphone, pounding his fist and bouncing around the stage. The lead guitarist strummed his strings so hard one broke within a few seconds, the metal wire swaying in the air.

 _I would love to wrap that around his throat._ Oswald cupped his hands over his ears, scowling at Butch, his eyes wild and flamed. _If you don't stop this madness, I will._

After a few tries, Butch managed to get the band's attention. They stopped and were promptly escorted out, Gabe wrestling the lead singer out the door.

"Let's keep it to a dull roar for the rest of the afternoon, shall we?" Oswald snapped at the crowd, a high pitch ringing buzzing in his ears. He rubbed his temples, a headache threatening to start. He took another sip of wine. He'd need a few bottles if he was going to get through the day.

"Next up, Adam Harrison and Emily Goldsmith," Butch called, scratching The Knick Knacks from the list with vigor.

"The Pink Eyes."

"Heather Fern and the Bushes." Oswald couldn't have rolled his eyes hard enough.

"Jennifer Thomas."

"Birds of a Feather."

Musician after musician performed with only a handful considered to be good enough to perform on his stage. The Penguin drank the last of his fifth glass of wine, his mind rocking on loose hinges. His body was warm and comfortable, and he was so ready for the auditions to be over. Just one more name on the list.

"Last but not least," Butch said, gesturing to the last musician.

The girl sighed, sucking in confidence and stood, brushing out any wrinkles in her black slacks. She checked and rechecked to be sure the sleeves of her navy sweater were down to her palms. She waved and smiled before making her way to the stage, her small heels clicking on the linoleum. Her guitar case banged against her thigh. Her long chocolate hair bounced against her back with every step, the color complimenting her olive skin.

"Hi, my name is Sammy O'Shea," she said quietly into the microphone before setting her guitar case down next to her, unlatching it then lifting the acoustic guitar strap above her head. She checked a few notes, checking and rechecking that it was in tune. "And this is an original piece called One Last Kiss."

Oswald perked up from the first note, her voice was raspy but smooth and controlled. Her fingers danced about the strings, slow and deliberate, plucking each string at precisely the right time. The rhythm was slow, almost torturous as he waited for the next note to vibrate. He hung on her every vowel, every consonant. She was a breath of fresh air. At least compared to most of the others he had watched earlier in the day.

He wanted to kill The Knick Knacks.

Sam's tone wasn't harsh or even rock and roll. And that was what Oswald liked about her most, even if she did happen to fail to follow instructions.

"I thought you said we needed more oomph," Oswald whispered to Butch, not being able to take his eyes off the performer.

"I found her at a bar uptown. She had more oomph then. I don't know why she's playing so soft."

"You _did_ tell her what we were looking for, right?" Oswald asked accusingly, reaching for his glass before realizing it was still empty.

"Of course I did. Even her appearance is much tamer than when I first met her." He tapped the tip of his pen near her name, itching to slash it out. "You want me to stop her?"

Oswald listened to her voice, a gentle high note sending shivers through his scalp. His breath caught in his throat and he felt tears well in the corners of his eyes. "Tell her to come here."

Butch raised a hand and Sam stopped in the middle of a word. He waved her over and she placed her guitar back in its case before walking over.

"You have a very pretty voice," Butch started. "But I'm sorry to say that—"

Oswald nudged Butch with a pointy elbow. "Butch, please, we said that we would get into contact with them at a later date." His voice was calm and polite but his eyes were wide and demanding.

Butch glanced back at the girl and nodded with a strained smile. "We'll let you know."

But Sam didn't move. "Look, I know that when we met," he gestured to Butch. "you initially said that you were looking for something hard rock, right?" An eyebrow raised under her wispy bangs.

Butch nodded again, his forced smile still plastered on.

"But being last has its advantages." Her eyes were now on Oswald and he noticed how dark they were, almost enveloping her pupils. "With all due respect, Mr. Cobblepot, I noticed that you didn't seem to be enjoying yourself."

The bridge of Oswald's nose turned pink.

"My apologies, sir, if I'm incorrect. But I'd like to think I have the ability to read an audience. I'm a versatile artist, I can play many different genres, and I'd be more than happy and honored to be able to work here."

"Great, we'll let you know," Butch interjected, his smile faltering. His pen still tapped.

"Thanks," Sam smiled. She shifted the guitar case to her other hand then headed for the door until the clicking of her heels disappeared outside.

"She's hired," Oswald said, smacking his hands on the table as he stood. His shoe caught on the leg of the chair and he almost toppled over.

"What, because she's pretty?" Butch scoffed, standing as well. "Remember what I told you about oomph."

"You said that she's capable of having oomph so there's the oomph I'm offering. She's also capable of having no oomph and that's more than fine with me. You can pick out whatever other oomph you'd like. "He limped behind the bar and fetched another bottle of wine.

"Oswald, we just restocked, remember? Save some for the flood of patrons we're about to have." Butch chuckled.

Oswald's nose pinked again and he set the bottle back down. "I'm just trying to drown myself before Don Falcone does it for me."

* * *

The following Saturday night was established as the new grand re-reopening of the Iceberg Lounge. Heather Fern and the Bushes headlined that evening on the promise that they'd change their name to something "less ridiculous". Their fans told their friends, who told their friends. Almost every table and booth was full and Oswald couldn't have been happier.

He took a small sip of his champagne and watched the crowd cheer as the band finished their second song. He winced, massaging his right knee. Moist weather always made it ache terribly. The storm outside must've been lingering longer than he expected.

"Am I right, or am I right?" Butch smirked, his hands planted firmly on his hips. His eyes sparkled in the neon lights. He stood next to Oswald, gleaming with delight.

"I don't know how I ever doubted you." Oswald smiled, raising his glass to him. The band began another song and he turned to watch.

Their sound wasn't terribly obnoxious. Oswald even found his foot tapping to the beat from time to time, until he caught himself doing so. But even if the band wasn't completely to his liking, nothing could ruin the wonderful evening. His club was almost full to the brim with happy patrons. They were smiling, lounging, enjoying themselves inside _his_ establishment. It had been all he ever wanted since Don Falcone entrusted him to take Fish's place all those weeks ago. Perhaps life was finally starting to turn around.

He swallowed the last of his champagne with such enthusiasm he nearly choked.

"Another glass, please," he instructed the bartender. He realized his liver had taken a beating within the last week for one reason or another. Tonight was about celebration, surely his body could forgive him.

As the bartender ducked below the counter to find the bottle, a figure caught Oswald's eye, sparkling like stars in the blue lights. He almost didn't recognize her and he turned away in embarrassment when she noticed him staring.

"Hey, Boss!" Sam shouted over the music, waving her guitar case in greeting. She sat near him at the bar, leaving a stool between them. She set her case down at her knees.

Oswald eyed the heavy case. "I'm sorry, but you're not performing tonight. Were you not informed?" He specifically remembered Butch suggested she perform on a slow night, to attract less attention if she failed, in which Oswald responded by biting the inside of his cheek. He kept quiet, reminding himself that Butch had the nightlife experience and he didn't.

Sam flapped out her leather jacket, spraying a thin mist of rain water into the air. "No, I know," she chuckled, swiping her wet bangs to the side. "I figured I'd stop by for a quick visit before my next show to show my support. Hey, Butch." Her smile revealed a dimple forming only on her left cheek.

Butch flashed her a crooked smile.

"Oh, well, thank you." Had Oswald noticed the small scar just under her left eye before? Just a pink sliver of a line down the side of her nose but it shimmered under the lights. "Would you like a drink? My compliments, of course."

"Water, please."

"Come now, you've come to celebrate so please, celebrate." He couldn't hide his proud smile.

"No, I'm sorry, I can't," Sam laughed. "I never drink before a show. It dries out my throat."

Suddenly his champagne didn't seem as appetizing, but he took a sip anyway. It was his night to shine, his time to be proud. Then she waltzed in and refused his hospitality, refused to join in the celebration. "Water, then," he snapped at the bartender, who flinched.

"Hey, don't worry about it." Sam raised a hand, dismissing her order. "It's not a big deal." Her dark eyes pierced daggers at Oswald, waiting for an explanation, but he only took another sip from his glass, keeping her gaze.

"I hope with your next visit you'll be more enthused to join in the festivities," he said with a cock of his head. A heated smirk rested on his lips. "I will see you Monday night."

Sam scoffed and rolled her eyes, escalating Oswald's annoyance. But she stepped down from her stool, collecting her case and leaving without another word, slamming the door against the wall as she flung it open.

Oswald turned his attention back to the stage, his glass firm in his grip, but noticed Butch looking at him. "Can I help you?"

"You're not the greatest with the ladies, are you?" Butch asked, watching the main entrance swing closed.

Oswald's eyes widened, both surprised and disgusted by his question. His cheeks flushed crimson. "I beg your pardon? That's extremely inappropriate."

"I'll put it to you simply." Butch leaned against the bar and gestured to the full tables. "If we can keep this up, we've got a good thing here. The Iceberg is going to be popular and people are going to want to meet you, especially the ladies. If you don't know how to act around a beautiful woman, there will be so many missed opportunities that you will regret for the rest of your life."

Sneering at the very idea of receiving dating advice from Butch, especially when Oswald was skeptical that he had had enough experience to give advice, Oswald stood abruptly, slamming his glass down on the bar. It shattered and he made sure not to flinch as the glass cut deep. A few people turned to see the origin of the noise but the music drowned out most of the high pitch. Butch raised his hands in defense and said nothing else, turning back toward the stage. A small smile rose on his face.

Oswald shuffled up the stairway opposite the bar, leading to the balcony. The managerial office was located at the far end, away from the stage. He scampered inside and promptly locked the door. He yanked the blinds shut. He stood before his desk, his hand trembling as blood dripped down his palm.

How dare Butch embarrass him like that. Who did he think he was?

He tugged open the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a first aid kit and tossing it onto the surface. He bit his lip, pain shooting into his wrist.

Even if it was true that his experience with the opposite sex was almost nonexistent, which he'd never admit even in death, it wasn't because he didn't try.

He sat in his tall, leather chair and opened the kit, searching for a pair of tweezers to pluck the large glass shard that stuck out between his thumb and forefinger.

He had tried several times during his younger days at school to woo someone, and more recently while under Fish's thumb. He thought he could impress them.

"I work close with Fish Mooney," he'd say and he could see the dollar signs in their eyes. The whole ordeal left an emptiness deep in his stomach. But at times he'd press on, ignoring the callused way they told him they loved him, just to feel a little less lonely. Usually once they realized he was too old to still be living with his English-challenged mother, they'd reject him outright.

He found the tweezers and, with a steady hand, slid the shard from his skin with a hiss. A new flow of blood gushed then and he pressed a thick piece of gauze over it. He made a fist to apply added pressure. With another pad of gauze, he wiped away the droplets of blood on his desk.

He hadn't attempted with another woman since owning the club. It had been too much pressure just to slink away from Maroni's grasp and needing to deal with the Liza fiasco all at once.

He sighed, remembering the sleepless nights trying to think of plausible evidence to expose Falcone's former housekeeper, who happened to die in the very spot where several of his customers were now seated.

But maybe Butch was right again. The club was suddenly a huge success and if they could keep the entertainment fresh, then there would be nothing to stop them. As long as Maroni kept his promise to Falcone. The last thing Oswald needed was to constantly look over his shoulder at his own club.

He ripped open another package of gauze with his teeth, replacing the blood drenched cloth.

Perhaps taking advantage of the situation would be good for him, allow him to live a little. His thirtieth birthday had long since passed. His plan to become King of Gotham was certainly taking longer than he expected and his youthful years were dwindling. He already felt older than he was with the unwanted help of his crooked leg, which ached terribly on snowy and rainy nights.

And Sam was quite beautiful, both physically and musically. Oswald was fully aware his outburst had been uncalled for despite his personal reasoning behind it. She had politely declined his offer, that was all.

Still clenching his blooded fist tightly, he rummaged through his desk, trying carefully to not push over a pile of papers.

"This place is a pigsty," he growled.

The manila folder was toward the bottom of the second stack he shuffled through and he flipped it open. Sam's employee photo smiled up at him, the single dimple indented in her cheek. Her thick hair was gathered onto one shoulder, a single strand in the bunch spiraling into the air. He gazed into her dark, almost black, eyes and wondered what sorts of things she had seen in her lifetime.

An apology was in order for his rude behavior, she being one of the few who truly deserved one from him. A flash of apologizing to Maroni or Fish entered his mind and he couldn't stop his laughter. Maybe if they cried for their lives hard enough he would, but that was a very strong maybe. But first he'd plant a shoe on each of their faces and stomp _hard._

He lifted the gauze and examined the wound. Blood still flowed but at a slower rate. He didn't see any need for stitches so he dressed the wound neatly, wrapping a bandage around the width of his palm to keep it secure.

He scanned through Samantha "Sam" O'Shea's folder and found her primary contact phone number. It would just be a simple, quick, informal apology, no longer than a couple of minutes. Hello, apology, goodbye, hang up. He read the phone number once, twice, singing it in his head, his hand hovering over the corded phone sitting at the corner of his desk. But he never picked up the receiver. Again, he read aloud the phone number, ten simple numbers. It was easy. Just pick up the phone, Oswald.

He closed the folder and huffed. He'd be seeing her in a few days anyway. He'd apologize then. He tossed the folder back onto the pile, the thin corner of the paper slitting his thumb.


	2. Chapter 2 - Poking the Sleeping Penguin

Chapter 2 - Poking the Sleeping Penguin

* * *

Oswald woke late that Monday, completely unprofessional he'd admit, but his mind was too tired to crawl out of bed. Even once he did, he groaned and sighed with every movement of his muscles. Sleep hadn't come easy to the poor little Penguin; he'd tossed and turned most of the night, his mind racing. Maroni, Fish, Falcone, Iceberg Lounge, Samantha then back to Maroni. All he wanted was to rest, sleep away the dark circles around his eyes.

He stood in his small bathroom then, shivering as the shower water turned hot slower than a snail's pace. Winter was coming early to Gotham that year, he could feel it. He watched his reflection in the mirror begin to fog, distorting the image of his wild hair. He'd forgotten to wash out the product the night before and surely his pillow now smelled of hair spray.

His shower only triggered more shivers, his thin body huddling under the stream of steamy water as best it could. He didn't want to move away to reach his soap or shampoo in fear of the freezing air that would send him into a fit of tremors. So he stood incredibly still, arms folded over his chest, the water beating down the back of his neck, watching the water swirl down the drain. Every day he told himself to buy a space heater and every day he shivered into the shower.

After almost ten minutes into his shower, he finally built up the courage to reach for the shampoo, but when he poured it directly on his head, the cold seized his breath. He quivered through the ordeal, dirty nails scrubbing at his scalp. The bar of soap came next, which he endured with gritted teeth. Rinsing came soon after, his body sighing with relief.

Wrapping two towels around himself, one around his waist and the other around his shoulders to trap the heat, he quickly combed out his hair. He slid his bangs to the side and smashed them down, allowing them to dry at an angle so styling would be less difficult.

The towel was still around his shoulders after slipping on his undershirt and boxer briefs for the day. The landlord would certainly receive an earful about the complete absence of heat in the building. He pried on a pair of black socks with stiff fingers.

A quiet chime echoed in the corner of his room, pleasant notes ringing as his cellphone vibrated on his bedside table. He yanked the charging cord away and glanced at the screen. He sighed and mussed the hair on the back of his head before pressing the green button.

"I'm sorry, Butch. I wasn't feeling well this morning," he lied, forcing himself to stand and trudge down the hall into the tiny kitchen. "Too sick to call, my apologies."

He opened the refrigerator door only to close it a second later. When was the last time he bought groceries? Either way, a tuna sandwich was a meal fit for a king, a future King of Gotham, and he remembered he had a few cans left.

"Well, you better hurry up and take your medicine," Butch snapped on the other line. "Zsasz will be here soon for an inspection. Falcone is wondering how things are going and you're not here!"

Oswald had just finished unscrewing the top of the can. "I-I told you, I was sick." His heart began thumping wildly. He squeezed the metal top of the tuna into the can and threw it into the empty refrigerator before running back into the bathroom. The cold miraculously didn't seem to bother him anymore.

"Yeah, and I'm going to tell him that but who knows if he'll believe me."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he stammered, tucking his phone against his ear and shoulder while pinching the last of his toothpaste onto the bristles. He'd have to send Gabe out to pick up some groceries later in the day. "Have Gabe come pick me up. Just tell Victor I'm running errands."

"That's worse than the first lie," Butch chuckled nervously. "Why are you really not here? It's almost three o'clock."

"I just couldn't sleep; too much to think about."

Butch paused, his voice lowered in a sly whisper. " _Thinking,_ right."

"What exactly are you insinuating?"

"Just wondering if you took my advice last night."

Oswald suddenly brushed his teeth vigorously, slamming his thumb down on the end call button.

It seemed too unprofessional for Butch to continuously make fun of his inexperience. Even after spending time in Zsasz's basement, he still had a mouth on him.

After brushing his teeth, he dried his hair as quickly as he could, then submerged himself in a cloud of hair spray. He lay the strands meticulously, spraying generously until it was to his liking. Then, to mask the smell of the spray, he spritzed some of his favorite cologne across his chest and behind his ears.

He was lucky he had picked out his suit the night before so dressing took no time at all. First came a white buttoned shirt, then thin suspenders, and then a black crossover bow tie. A purple vest was next that lay nicely under a black jacket that had thick, gray stripes. He stuffed a matching pocket square into his jacket and slipped on his shiniest black shoes, tying them tight. Collecting his cellphone, keys, coat and a pair of cufflinks to put on during the ride there, he slammed the door shut behind him as he left his little apartment, locking it firmly.

* * *

All eyes were on Oswald as he entered the club, panting from scurrying out of the car. Victor smiled widely.

"See, I told you he was running errands," Butch said loudly to Victor Zsasz so Oswald would hear. Sweat had collected thinly on his upper lip. The last thing in the world that he needed was to be alone with Zsasz more than he had to.

But Victor's sunken eyes scanned over the Penguin. "I don't see any bags."

"Gabe is unloading them in the back," Oswald said, holding the door closed as Gabe tried to enter. "You can never have too many… lightbulbs."

"Yes, lightbulbs," Butch agreed, smiling at Victor, but then rolled his eyes when the assassin turned away.

"The place looks good." Victor touched a lightbulb in the lamp on the table nearest to him. He watched carefully as Oswald shrugged off his long coat. "I told you I do good work. Right, Butch?" He patted the man on the back, ignoring his flinch.

Oswald draped his coat over one arm, smiling hesitantly at Victor. "Ah, yes, great work. Thank you again, Victor."

"Don Falcone is impressed by your overnight success," Victor continued, ignoring the compliment. He wandered toward Oswald, checking the neatness of the tablecloths. "But he's still cautious for the long term. Because of that, I'll be making periodic visits." He stopped inches away from the Penguin, impressed he didn't flinch under his shadow. "And I won't always tell you when I'm coming."

"Then it'll be quite the happy surprise, I assure you," Oswald smiled curtly. "Is there a special drink I can have ready for you?"

Victor laughed softly, his voice skipping over air in the way it did when he was especially amused. "Funny little Penguin, I'll see you around."

Butch waited until the door was closed firm behind Victor before he breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "You can't leave me alone with him. I still have nightmares every night, dreaming of his basement." He trembled and stumbled to the back of the bar, snatching the closest bottle he could get his hands on and poured himself a tall drink.

"You can't expect me to be here from open to close on the off chance he'll stop by. Unless you do something again that would make Falcone distrust you, you have nothing to worry about."

Butch rolled his eyes at the word "again" and slammed back his drink.

"Besides, I have faith in our little establishment." He smiled warmly at his nervous friend, straightening a cufflink. "Saturday was a success, as was last night. If we stay consistent there will be nothing standing in our way, I can feel it."

"We'll see how your girlfriend performs tonight." Butch poured himself another drink and gulped it down. He scoffed at Oswald's annoyed look. "I'm just joking with you, lighten up."

"Boss, why'd you lock me out?" Gabe asked, coming in through the kitchen.

Oswald turned abruptly and limped toward the stairs, déjà vu becoming quite clear as he entered the office. He hung his coat on the rack on the wall near the door and collapsed into his chair, running a hand down his face. It hadn't exactly been the type of morning he had ever wanted and his growling stomach was enough evidence of that. He shuffled through the papers on his desk once again, searching for a take-out menu.

* * *

Oswald awoke in his leather chair with a stiff neck and a wooden chopstick dangling from his fingers. An empty plastic container with the remains of his delivered sushi sat in front of him, a few slices of ginger and a smear of wasabi still there. He groaned, straightening his back and hearing it pop. He tossed the chopstick into the wasabi and reached into the left hand drawer for a bottle of aspirin.

His head was throbbing at an alarming capacity, his ears humming as if there were hundreds of people right outside his office. He rubbed his brow. Then he was hearing voices. Then a conversation, their words clear as day. And they _were_ coming from outside the office.

Standing suddenly, he hissed, gripping his leg. Never again would he fall asleep in a chair for his body's sake. With a heavier limp, he peeked through the blinds and was greeted with the back of a woman's head. Her hair was long and wild, dyed the color of the sky on a cloudless day. A man stood next to her, his arm around her waist. His hair was buzzed but dyed neon pink. Another man was next to him, then another, then another woman. Oswald saw several heads, all talking, laughing. Some were taking photos; others were talking on their cellphones. The balcony was full to the brim.

Oswald straightened himself, glancing in the mirror in the tiny washroom on the other side of the office, before venturing out. He had to excuse himself, the door bumping into a young woman, possibly too young to be inside a bar. He locked the door behind him, suspicious of someone entering. He was quite aware of his knee as he slunk through the crowd to get to the stairs, his hobble accidentally forcing him to bump into several people.

Downstairs wasn't any easier to move through. The tables and chairs had been removed to make room for the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd that was gathered there. The stage was quiet with only the neon umbrella there to occupy the space. He managed to pass the bar, where the bartenders were flustered with orders, and pushed open the doors to the kitchen.

"Butch?" Oswald called out, his voice failing to hide his nervousness. "Has anyone seen him?"

"I'm here, I'm here. What's wrong?" Butch scampered over, glancing around Oswald's person. Was he injured? Or worse, was Zsasz back?

"What's going on?" Oswald squeaked, gesturing out into the main room. "We're over capacity!"

"Oh," Butch sighed, laughing at his panic. "I'm not completely sure, but I believe that's because of your girl."

Oswald's mouth bobbed, his brain unable to form words. "But there's at least two hundred people out there."

"Yeah and there was a line outside too, but we had to show them away. This place just isn't big enough." His smile grew alongside Oswald's shock.

"B-but the tables and chairs are—"

"I had to rent a truck. It's all parked out back." He laughed heartily and took Oswald's shoulder, shaking it lightly. "Just take a breath, relax. If there's that many people outside, it can only mean she's really good. You sure know how to pick them."

Oswald laughed breathily, forcing himself to smile. Never in his wildest dreams could he imagine a full house, let alone one that was packed like sardines. It had to violate several health and safety codes and the thought of being shut down because of it only fueled his anxiety. He shuffled out of the kitchen, Butch's hand still on his shoulder, and was greeted to a series of cheers and whistles toward the door.

A path was forming, high fives and hugs being shared as Sam entered the club. Her smile was bright in the neon lights, her dimple deeper than Oswald had ever seen it. She wore the same leather jacket she had worn the last time he had seen her along with faded jeans and a dark t-shirt. Her boots rose just past her ankles, the material a deep crimson. Oswald couldn't help but admire the color. Her thick hair was tied back in a messy bun, her bangs tucked to the side.

Sam greeted Butch with a hug and a warm smile as if they had been old friends. Oswald found it odd, but almost expected a hug as well. Instead, she held out her hand to him, her back straight. Her dark eyes were clouded with her heavy black makeup but he could still see them pierce through him. His first impression had settled the type of relationship they would have, he feared. He would forever be the formal, short-tempered boss.

He took her hand and shook, then pulled her in closer. "I apologize for my behavior the other night," he said into her ear, trying to be heard over the crowd. "I was not myself."

She leaned in as well, saying into his ear, "Don't worry about it, already forgotten." She squeezed and patted his arm.

A tingle grazed Oswald's spine and he felt his face grow hot.

"Here, I brought you something." Sam reached into the inside of her leather jacket and handed him a small, plastic container. "I hope you don't mind but I brought some friends to play other instruments. You don't have to worry about paying them. They've owed me a favor for quite a while." She patted his arm again, flashing her boss a smile. "See you later." And then she was off, disappearing into the crowd.

Oswald turned away, nudging closer to the door of the kitchen, hiding behind the divider. He opened the container and inside were two neon orange earplugs. He glanced up on stage as another wave of cheers echoed in the room. Sam and three men walked about, setting up their equipment. A drum set was pushed out on a pallet from backstage.

Sam took center stage and tapped the mic. A few fans cheered at the brain-scrambling feedback. She laughed and pointed toward their direction.

How had Oswald never heard of her before? She clearly had a very strong following and she was beloved by so many. So many, in fact, that the club was too small to house them all. And who knew how many more were out there? Was she centralized in Gotham or had she traveled outside the city limits to perform? How long had she been performing? What was that scent she was wearing that had made his head swim?

Oswald ducked his head as he felt his cheeks warm again. He tucked the earplugs in snuggly just as she addressed the crowd.

"How're you guys doing tonight?" Sam asked the room, her voice smooth and soft. She smiled as they cheered. "Over here we have Tommy Hallowton." She gestured to the man to her right, holding a bright yellow bass guitar. His light hair was styled and parted at the side. A metal ring pinched his left eyebrow.

"And over here there's Brax Donovan," she announced, gesturing to the man on her left. His guitar was deep maroon, the body chipped in several places. His dark hair was tied back into a small ponytail.

"Behind me is Vince Williams." The drummer tapped the bass drum with his foot which gathered a stronger applause. The neon umbrella shone against his bald head.

"And I am Sammy O'Shea and we will be your entertainment for the evening." She bowed and the crowd went wild. A few fans screamed cat calls as she swung the strap of her bright green electric guitar over her head.

"But, before we get started, I'd like to thank my boss for the opportunity to be here." She licked her lips, her smile overbearing. "But this place is so hot," she whined, flapping her jacket to let in some air. "You'd think the Iceberg Lounge would be colder." Her hand hid her eyes in embarrassment but the crowd cheered anyway. "That was dumb, but I had to. OK, let's get started."

* * *

The hum of the amplifier began to fade on their final song but Sam kept her final note strong. The crowd cheered and whistled the effort even after she had taken a breath.

"Thanks guys," she panted into the mic. She wiped her sleeve on her forehead, the sweat smearing on the leather. "We'll see you later." She lifted her guitar over her head, holding it tight as she and her bandmates took their bows. The audience roared with applause as they exited the stage, Tommy bouncing with excitement.

Oswald's own applause was drowned out by the cheering but he felt he was clapping the loudest. Never would he have imagined a performance of such caliber in his club. Despite his taste in music still differing from what he had just seen, he knew talent when he saw it. Her voice was fluid and wild but a note never faltered, control was never lost. Even though she had lost a guitar pick or two, she'd nonchalantly take another from the pocket of her jacket and continue on as if nothing happened. She'd interacted with the audience, sometimes recognizing someone and greeting them by name. She flirted, she screamed, she danced. She knew what to do, how to do it and when to do it. To Oswald, she had been near perfection if perfection could exist.

The nervous pit in his stomach returned and his clapping stopped. The feelings he was experiencing were those he had only felt a handful of other times in his life and each one of those times ended in heartbreak. What made him think Sam could be any different? The nervous pit wrenched inside him.

Butch nudged Oswald on the arm with his elbow, then rubbed his thumb and forefinger together greedily. Penguin smiled and nodded in acknowledgment. It was true that as long as they kept Sam employed, and as long as she stayed relevant, money would be no issue. But he wondered what the restrictions were for being in a relationship with an employee.

A suspicious warmth rose over him and he turned away into the kitchen. The door swung behind him and he plucked the plugs from his ears.

He did not just think that, he did _not_. It was just the energy she was giving off during the show that had given him butterflies, that was all. It was just a surge of endorphins and his mind was playing tricks, that was all. But then why was his face still hot and his hands still clammy? He wiped them on his pants, which helped little. The thought had been a fluke, it had to be. He was much, much too busy to ever think about sharing his life with another person. And it was much, much too soon to even consider her as a companion.

Besides, Mother already assumed he was with a hussy every night. It was best to not fuel that thought. Not that he thought Sam was a hussy. She seemed nice and respectable and attractive.

The kitchen door swung open behind him. He twisted around quickly as if he were hiding a dirty little secret, which he was starting to doubt he didn't have. Sam stood there, two glasses of bubbling champagne in her hands. Her face was flushed and moist but the dark makeup around her eyes hadn't dripped. Her hair was pulled back in a much looser ponytail, her bangs brushed to the side but still sticking to her forehead. It was then Oswald realized she was just as tall as he, perhaps even a fraction of an inch taller.

"Butch said you were hiding in here," she smiled, her voice still breathy from exhaustion. "What did you think of the show?"

Oswald stammered, pushing his thoughts away as best he could. "Very entertaining." He smiled with a small twitch of uncertainty in his lips.

Sam noticed this and chuckled. "I know it's not your preference, sorry. But I think you'll grow to like it. Plus, it brings in a good crowd, don't you think?"

"Yes, it certainly does." She seemed unaware of how poorly the club had been doing previously and Oswald thought it best to keep her in the dark.

"Oh, here," she gasped, handing Oswald one of the glasses of champagne. "I still owed you a drink."

Oswald took the glass, his brows furrowing in question. "You owed me a drink?"

"Well, as you so eloquently put it, I'm more enthused to join in the festivities now." She took a sip then patted Oswald on the shoulder when his lips tightened in a thin line. "I'm just joking."

"Yes, joking." He took a long sip of his drink, debating whether to finish it altogether. His eyes selected a crate of fruit sitting on the counter beside him to look at instead of her. His good thoughts from earlier crashed down into a pile of dust and rubble. "We'll have to schedule your next performance at a later date. Butch will contact you." He swallowed the rest of his drink, tucking the glass almost protectively against his chest. He wanted nothing more than to leave the conversation. He was on the verge of snapping, belittling her for mocking him. But he needed the business so his tongue stayed still.

"Oh." Sam muttered, watching the foam collect at the bottom of her boss's glass. Her eyes tipped downward like a puppy that was just kicked. Her dimple disappeared. "Alright."

Oswald kept his hard exterior as best he could, but the nervous pit dug even deeper into his gut. He felt nauseous. His hands were sweating. How was this girl unwinding him so quickly? Soon he'd be putty in her hands if he couldn't keep his emotions intact. He needed to stay focused, keep his goal in mind and not let some stranger allow him to stray.

He swallowed hard and furrowed his brow. But all he could say was, "I'm sorry, maybe I shouldn't have champagne anymore." His attempt at a lighthearted laugh was strained. "It goes straight to my head."

Sam nodded in acknowledgement but a smile never formed. "Oh, it's no problem." She set her glass on the counter next to her, her fingers lingering on the long stem for a moment longer. "I should get going. It's late and I have to catch the bus."

Oswald set his glass down beside hers, noticing a chip of violet polish missing from her thumb. "If you'd like to stay longer, I can have Butch drive you home, it's no –"

"No, no," Sam interrupted. Her words stumbled over themselves. "I-I need to get back, but thank you." She began picking at a callus growing from the corner of her thumb, her fingers jittering as they dug.

Oswald's eyes glanced down at her hands and they stopped.

Sam tucked her hands in the pockets of her jacket and she shrugged them from inside. "I guess this is goodnight."

"If you change your mind about the ride offer, don't hesitate to call."

"Thanks again." The kitchen doors swung quietly behind her.

Her departing smile stabbed guilt into his heart. He covered his eyes with his palm and sighed.

 _She's going to quit because of you if you can't get your act together,_ he hissed at himself. _For once in your life, try to act normal._


	3. Chapter 3 - Hands from the Darkness

Final trigger warning: story contains scenes of domestic abuse and self harm

* * *

Chapter 3 - Hands from the Darkness

* * *

Sam tugged at her sleeves, her nails digging deep into the thick fabric. Old indents lined the seams on her sleeves, evidence of one of her many comforting rituals. Her vision blurred, lids weighed down by tears that threatened to spill over. But she tilted her head up and stared at the smog rolling over the stars during the frigid night. The blue neon umbrella that was mounted to the entranceway of the club reflected off her strained tears and she had to look away.

 _Why did you have to take another job?_ She began biting the inside of her cheek, the fog of her breath warming her face. _You know you've been under a lot of stress already, and now this?_ The tears began spilling down the sides of her face, collecting in the notches of her ears. _You're in public, stop it._

A strong pair of arms wrapped themselves around her middle, squeezing tightly. She groaned under the pressure, but welcomed the embrace. She gripped the wrists tightly and opened her mouth to expel a phony yawn. She wiped her tears away, careful to not smear her makeup.

"Sammy's tired already?" Brax teased behind her, giving her sides a tickle. The musk of his sweat and cologne engulfed Sam, almost inviting the tears to return.

"I'd be surprised if she wasn't," Vince sighed, stretching his arms across his chest. A bicep twitched involuntarily. "That was a crazy show." He then hopped to his friends, wrapping his arms around the both of them. He shivered playfully against them.

Sam yawned again, harder and longer than the first. Her bottom lip twitched and she wiped her sleeve across her eyes. She never understood why she'd tear up whenever the boys hugged her so kindly. Or perhaps she did know, deep down, but was too afraid to realize.

Tommy yawned as well before lighting a cigarette. "Geez, stop it, Sammy," he laughed. "You know it's contagious." He ran his thick fingers through his light hair, taking a long drag.

"Hey, can I bum one off of you?" Brax asked, releasing Sam with one hand and holding it out to Tommy. His friend obliged and held the lighter steady as the paper lit.

Sam grimaced at the smell and wiggled away from the vises. "You know that's a disgusting habit."

Brax's eyes widened, his mouth gaped extravagantly. "You just don't know what you're missing!" He took a puff, his lips then curling into a devilish smile. The smoke seeped through his teeth, drifting into the cold autumn air. He laughed heartily, phlegm vibrating in his throat.

Vince lightly smacked his arm, brow furrowed. "Relax," he demanded. Brax shrugged and took another puff.

 _Stupid, stupid._ Sam zipped her jacket to her chin. _You're so stupid._

A group of teenagers approached Tommy and Brax, disguising a cigarette request with praise for the show. Sam suspected they hadn't even been old enough to watch from inside.

"I'm going to go," Sam announced quietly to herself, eyeing her friends as they were swamped by another group of fans just exiting the club. She turned and walked briskly down the street, haloing her ponytail to hide her face.

Her fingers picked at the seams once again, the wind numbing them quickly. But she welcomed the pins and needles, the spot in the leather her finger repeatedly rubbed feeling smooth, almost otherworldly. Back and forth, back and forth her finger polished the material. The spot would be bald in no time and only then would she move to a different spot.

She kept her head down, counting the lines between the sidewalk. She was very aware of the bustling city around her, despite the late hour. It wasn't a new experience to walk around the city alone with only the light of neon signs to guide her home. She learned quickly to keep to herself, and to keep a full bottle of mace in her pocket.

Having mace on her at all times when she was out seemed unnecessary at first. She had been just a young woman then, barely nineteen, when she moved to Gotham from her tiny town across the country. The city had been scary but the nightlife was so exciting! Parties, dancing, drinking, and especially flirting with cute boys had made life seem weightless and never-ending. Danger was never on her carefree mind. Until hands had grabbed her from the darkness one night as she walked home, a tequila buzz still warm in her brain. The hands ripped and teared, punched and clawed. She had been filled quickly and left in the back of an alleyway, panties shredded around her ankles. She lay there undiscovered until the next morning when an officer out on his morning route noticed her. The case never moved forward from its initial interview after the DNA that was collected hadn't matched anyone in the criminal data base.

It had been just another day in Gotham.

Sam clenched her jaw tightly, remembering the swift kick to the back of her head that had left her seeing stars on that hot, summer night. She couldn't scream, she couldn't cry no matter how badly she wanted to. Her mind had only blurred protectively and she allowed it to happen. A part of her died that night, she believed, though still never quite knew which part it was.

She gripped the mace in her pocket, perking up to the sound of a group of men laughing in the threshold of a club across the street. She only glanced over for a moment, analyzing the scene in her mind after she had looked away. There were four or five of them, drinking and smoking and otherwise not noticing her. Her pace quickened, her thighs burning as she pushed forward.

 _Just a few more blocks._

It was then she couldn't differentiate between the thumping of her heart in her ears or a scramble of foot falls dashing behind her. She was sprinting then, cramps pinching in her muscles. But she wouldn't stop until she was at the entrance of the apartment building, its familiarity unbelievably needed. Her fingers fiddled with her keys for only a moment before the door was open. She bolted inside and slammed the door behind her, holding her breath. She waiting, expecting fists and boots to bang on the wood, shouting for her. She waited, her hand tight and trembling on the doorknob. But the noises never came. Sam didn't know if the footsteps had been real or if it had truly been only her frantic heart.

She checked the doorknob until she seemed satisfied that it was locked. Her hands trembled and she held them together, watching her knuckles turn pink from the grip. She forced her mind to focus on a single item, to keep her grounded, to keep the hyperventilation away. The freckles on her boss's nose became that one item, despite their chaotic pattern over his skin. It hadn't been intentional and the intimate thought made her blush. His icy eyes came then, their intensity creating a strange knot in her chest.

Her boots carried her down the hallway and up the stairs to the third floor, being careful to skip over a few toys that were strewed over the landing. They always seemed to be there and she often wondered if a child even lived in the building. Fumbling with her keys once more, she unlocked the door to the apartment, good ole number thirty-six, and flipped the light switch next to the threshold. Kneeling down, she untied and slipped off her boats, setting them by the door, which she promptly locked.

The small living room was empty and quiet except for the ticking clock mounted above the loveseat. The kitchen and the hallway, which lead to the bathroom and bedroom, were dark and just as eerily quiet.

"Noah?" Sam called out and waited a moment for a reply that never came. Switching on the light in the hallway, she checked the bedroom. The sheets on their bed were tossed and twisted. Clothes littered the floor. Posters lined the walls, the adhesive that held a few of them beginning to fail. The mirror mounted to the closet door was smudged with fingerprints and lipstick kisses. It may have been disorganized but it was her disaster and she felt comfortable in its anarchy.

She peeled away her leather jacket and tossed it on the bed. She stretched and yanked the tie from her hair, fluffing her head and sighing with relief. It had been such a strange night but she was home safe and sound. She lifted her shirt over her head and added it to the pile on the floor. She was careful to keep her eyes away from the mirror, purposely looking far away enough that her peripheral couldn't register her figure. She slipped away her bra. The last thing she needed was to ruin the night more by seeing her ugly self.

Keeping her eyes locked onto the fist-sized hole in the wall over their bed, she dressed into her pajamas, which was nothing more than a hole-filled shirt and sweatpants. She pulled on a sweatshirt as well, shivering in her cold clothes. She rubbed her hands together and left the bedroom, glancing at the thermostat in the hallway. Noah had left the heat off again but she didn't dare turn it on.

With frigid fingers, she pulled a plate from the kitchen cabinet, only to put it back and replace it with one that didn't have a jagged, missing piece. She made herself a simple sandwich with the last of the luncheon meat in the refrigerator and poured herself a handful of potato chips. A beer accompanied the meal and she curled up on the loveseat to eat, the plate tucked nicely against her chest.

The television on the other side of the room glowed for a moment before the picture popped on screen, the image speckled with static. A commercial for the latest beauty cream flashed smiles to its audience and Sam muted it hurriedly. She stared at her sandwich, taking a forceful bite. The bread was crusted as if it had been toasted. Noah had probably left the packaging open so it had dried out from exposure. But she took another bite.

 _Food is food,_ she insisted. _It still tastes the same._

The commercial ended abruptly and she unmuted the television. A news anchor cleared her throat and began reading the teleprompter.

"Our final report tonight," she began, her brows furrowing over brown eyes, "unfortunately, is an update on the latest string of serial–"

A key entered the lock of the front door and Sam jumped, quickly muting the television once again. She smiled at Noah as he walked in and quickly finished chewing her mouthful of chips. A black duffle bag hung from his shoulder.

"Why are all these lights on?" Noah snapped, and quickly stomped to the hallway, flicking the lights off. He then went to the kitchen and did the same.

"Sorry," Sam quickly said, setting her plate down on the coffee table in front of her. She stood to attention, her hands wriggling under her long sleeves. "I forgot. My mind is working faster than my body." Her laugh was strained but she kept her smile as genuine as possible.

"That's alright," Noah sighed, setting his bag down by the front door. He kicked off his shoes, setting them neatly next to her boots. His fingers ran through his sandy brown hair, swiping it away from his face. "Just… you know money is tight and we can't always pay the bills." His hands trailed down the sides of her arms, kissing her cheek.

"But that's the exciting news I have!" Her smile widened. She hugged him tightly and he reciprocated tenderly. "You should've seen the show tonight. The place was so packed I heard they couldn't fit everyone inside! My boss said that he'll schedule another show with me soon. He really seemed to like us. I have a feeling I'll be doing a lot of shows there."

Noah's hug tightened. "That's great! What's your boss's name?" His voice was terse. His hug squeezed her shoulders tighter. His hot breath warmed her ear.

"Oswald Cobblepot," she groaned, her lungs struggling to expand. His grasp released suddenly and she swallowed down a cough. "His place is the club that used to have the big neon fish skeleton on the front."

Noah's brow twitched for a moment, his green eyes glowing with intensity. "That's great. How old is he?"

Sam paused for a moment. "What?"

His hands clasped into fists. "How _old_ is he?"

"I don't know, maybe late twenties?"

"Do you think he's attractive?"

Sam could feel her pulse racing in her throat, blood rushing in her ears. She quickly said no, not allowing her mind to consider if she did or not. But Oswald's piercing eyes swam to the surface of her thoughts and a headache scratched through her forehead.

"Do you have the money from the show?"

A cold chill ran through her veins. Her lips pursed, the skin turning white. _Oh no, how did you forget? How could you? You forgot the guitar too. You had been so busy trying to get away from your boss that you forgot everything._

His hand lashed out, yanking her forward. His fingers pressed deeply into her arm. His jaw clenched but his voice was velvet. "That's alright. We'll head over there in the morning and collect the cash. You did tell him to only pay you in cash, right?"

"Of course, of course." She involuntarily flinched as he stroked her cheek and she was quick to apologize.

"That's my girl," he whispered sweetly, cupping her face in his hands. He kissed her deeply, moaning as his tongue snaked into her mouth. His hands explored her quickly, grabbing her flesh until it burned.

A whimper escaped her throat, his hands grabbing her breast and clutching it almost desperately. But the pain surged into her armpit with lightning speed and she had to pry him away. His other hand took hold of her other breast, the clamp just as fierce as the last.

"You're hurting me," she gasped, breaking away from the kiss. But his mouth found hers again, silencing her. Her back pressed against the wall of the hallway, his chest smashing her to it. Her hands were lifted and held above her head with one strong hand. The other hand slunk its way under her hole-filled shirt where a pair of callused fingers pinched, tweaked and pulled.

She shook her head. He'd stop, right? He eventually stopped all the other times. He'd let her breathe, take a break once the mood lifted, just like the other times. He worked hard at his job all day and all he wanted was to let off a little steam once he got home. That was all. He just needed to let off some aggravated steam. His coworkers always gave him such a hard time and his boss was always an ass.

"Baby, stop crying," he whispered in her ear. "You know I love you. You know no one else could." His teeth nibbled gently on her earlobe. His thumbs swept across her cheeks, smearing away blackened tears. "Why don't you go wash up and meet me in bed, hmm?"

Sam's head nodded hesitantly, her nose beginning to run. She agreed with a trembling voice and his hands immediately left her. She scurried down the hall, closing and locking the bathroom door behind her.

Her eyes mistakenly saw her reflection in the smudged mirror above the sink. Her mouth gaped, her face contorted, and pressure overcame her head as she screamed silently. Her hands balled into fists against her eyes. Her nails raked into her temples, scratching her ears, digging down her cheeks. With an open hand, she struck her face. She threw her sweatshirt away, then her t-shirt. Red, fingertip-shaped marks had lined themselves across her breasts and they heaved as she screamed inwardly once more. Her throat was seized raw and she cupped her hands over her mouth as a sob threatened to explode.

She looked at the mirror again, her fingers once again digging into her cheeks. Streaks of black soiled her face. Jagged lines of broke flesh scattered across her arms down her stomach and legs, some fresh and pink, others old and shiny. The pure definition of chaos was embedded into her skin. Years of harm and relief, days and nights of silent whimpering, locked inside several different bathrooms and bedrooms. Scars upon scars upon scars, splashed together in every which way, haphazardly defined her muscles and veins. Her skin would forever be rippled and grooved. Most were shallow, nothing more than thin lines. But a few were large, deep, and hideous. The largest followed the lining of her outer thigh, made on a particularly bad, drunken night. But the deadliest ran across the front of her hips, made by a particularly bad, drunken ex-boyfriend who hadn't wanted children; and now because of it, she never would.

And it took all she had to not punch the glass that moment. The pierce of a sharpened edge was what she craved, what she deserved. Noah would be furious if she broke anything so she turned away from the mirror for the final time. Opening the bottom drawer on her side of the sink, she found a matchbox that once belonged to her favorite Italian restaurant that had closed down years ago. Sliding it open, her fingers trembled as her nails caught and lifted one of the many sections of a box cutter blade she had inside. Clarity came over her for a brief moment and she could've sworn there hadn't been that many last time she accessed it.

But it didn't matter how many there were or how many there would ever be. As long as there was at least one.

"Baby," Noah called from the other side of the door. "Please patch yourself up before you come to bed. I just found old blood on the sheets again."

Sam tried to apologize, tried to push words through her aching throat, but only air puffed from her lungs. She cupped her mouth again, another sob trying to break through. With her other hand, while delicately holding the small blade between her fingers, she slipped away her pants and underwear, and stepped into the tub. She curled up tightly, her knees pressing against her chest, and shivered against the cold porcelain. The showerhead stared judgingly down at her. The cold stabbed into her back, her exposed limbs burning. Her breathing quickened, her fingers trembled. An angry gurgle rumbled in her stomach, screaming to be fed.

She took the first cut, nothing more than a thin line across the top of her thigh. The fresh scab from the previous night chipped off and the blood rushed immediately.

 _Look at it, look at it. This is what you deserve._

Another slice, then another, a little deeper than the last. The rush of relief wasn't coming and the tears came harder.

 _You've screwed up again. Why else would he hurt you? He knows you deserve it. He knows better than you._

"Baby," Noah called again. "Are you in the tub like we talked about?"

Sam turned on the faucet, the freezing water washing over her toes.

"Good girl. Don't take too long. It's getting late."

* * *

Sam stood in front of the space heater on the bathroom counter, waiting for the water in the shower to warm. Her body trembled but she didn't feel cold. Her hair was wild and plastered to one side of her face with sweat, clear evidence of a restless night. Her legs and back ached. The large patch of gauze taped to her thigh was crusty and maroon.

But she felt no ill will toward Noah. He had been gentler than usual. He must've known that she had also had a long day as well.

Noah was a passionate and intense lover. Sam didn't mind her submissive role. It made him happy. He'd always tell her he loved her afterwards, and the tears would change to relief and happiness. She could never hear those three small words enough. Then, he'd snuggle close to her, his hand possessively around her neck, and begin snoring in her ear. She'd giggle at the tiny twitches his body would make in deep sleep; they were so adorable. Yes, it would be scary to wake up in the middle of the night with his fingers tightening around her throat as he dreamed, but he couldn't help it. He wasn't doing it on purpose. He loved her, just like he always said.

 _No one else could love you,_ she thought, her eyes betraying her as they caught her reflection in the mirror. Four circular bruises were lined down the side of her neck. She examined the dark, sensitive area and sighed quietly. She could either wear a scarf for the next few days or tell everyone they were hickies, so harmless and playful. Would they believe her lie? She hated lying for Noah's roughhousing but it was better than him being very angry with her.

The mirror began to fog so she stepped gingerly into the shower. The water scorched her back but she stood still as it did. Her fists clenched tightly. The burning release she had wanted the night before was filling her mind.

The tears came quickly, the weight of her shame washing over her hotter than the water. She had only been awake for a few minutes that gloomy, snowy morning and already she had lost control. Her hands tugged at her hair, her lips curling back to expose grinding teeth. She hated the sad, little addiction she had, which forced her to hate herself even more. Self-mutilation seemed to be the only constant thing in her life that helped anchor her.

The freckles on her boss's nose popped into her mind again, the tiny dots burning themselves into a small corner of her brain for safe keeping. The sporadic pattern that danced around the ridges of his face gave her comfort. It was a sort of comfort that left her uneasy.

Oswald Cobblepot hadn't exactly been the friendliest person she'd ever worked for. His mood swings confused her, almost frightened her in the calm way he'd stare at her as his words stung. His anger seemed quick to ignite, almost to the point of being unprovoked. He'd snapped at her, mocked her with sarcasm. But he also smiled at her and apologized for his behavior. He had given her a job and had decided he liked her enough to ask her to come back, even if it had only been for the money. But business was business.

The similarities between him and Noah made her stomach turn. Was Oswald capable of putting his hands on her too? If he did, could she stop him?

The shower curtain rattled open and Noah stood there watching her. His morning erection throbbed at the sight of her soaked body.

"Don't waste so much hot water," he growled, slapping his hand down on the shower lever.

Sam apologized then gasped as a sting of cold water pelted her red back. She adjusted the lever to a more comfortable temperature as Noah stepped in, grabbing his shampoo bottle and lathering up.

"Do you think you could take care of this for me?" He poked her thigh with his erection. "It would be pretty awkward to meet your boss with a boner." He pressed her against the wall of the shower, taking the water for himself as he rinsed.

"I'm still pretty sore from last night," she laughed, catching her footing as it slipped on the slick flooring. "Maybe later tonight I'll do something special?"

He finished rinsing his hair silently. His lips were tight, his jaw tense. Once he felt the soap was gone from his scalp, his green eyes snapped open and stared down at her. His biceps twitched as his hands tightened into fists.

"I'm pretty sure I _asked_ now," he growled. "How about do your part for once, hmm? This relationship is failing because of your selfishness." Sam tried to interject, her lip trembling, but he only spoke louder. "Who's the one allowing you to do whatever you want, frolicking from club to club every night? Who's the one letting you continue to hurt yourself even though it _tears_ _me up_ inside knowing you do it?" He stepped closer, pressing himself against her. "But I know it's what you want to do and it makes you feel better. Don't you want me to feel better once in a while?"

Sam hid her face in her hands, her shoulders trembling with sobs. She flinched as he grabbed her hips, rubbing himself between her legs.

"I want to feel better too," he snarled and bit down on her shoulder.

She shrieked, cupping her mouth tightly. His teeth dug deep. Clouds of red swirled down the drain. He lifted her leg and grunted as he thrusted. His rough hand squeezed at her mouth, muffling her crying. But he loved the sounds she made as her pain escalated, until he hit a particular spot inside her and the crying dwindled. Her eyes glazed over, her jaw relaxing against his hand.

He grinned as he neared his finish, then bit down on her other shoulder. The taste of copper quickly teased his tongue.


	4. Chapter 4 - Noah White

Takes place during Season 1, Episode 18 "Everyone Has a Cobblepot"

* * *

Chapter 4 - Noah White

* * *

"If I help you find where Loeb keeps his files, you give me ten minutes alone with them." Oswald's heart thumped in his ears. Negotiating was one of the fun parts of being an underboss, apart from the mindless carnage he loved dipping his hands in, especially when it was taking place in his territory, despite the fact that the club was empty at the moment. He felt it was more like practice for the day he'd finally become King. "I take what I want."

Jim Gordon hesitated.

"This is not a good idea," Harvey Bullock warned behind him, leaning against a post. Jim was digging his own grave for the thousandth time since they had been partners and it always seemed to be revolved around Penguin. Harvey had been reluctant to pay the criminal a visit, knowing he wouldn't give them information without some form of payment.

" _Five_ minutes," Jim said, "and you don't touch anything that has to do with the cops." He kept his voice leveled and stern, his nerves staying in check. But the thought of Penguin having access to possible vital information about Gotham's citizens made him uneasy. Was he really willing to risk that just to get to Loeb?

Oswald couldn't help but smile. "Five minutes with the files and a favor from Jim Gordon? Done!" He chuckled, his smile widening. This was his moment, his opportunity to rise in the ranks. He could only imagine the piles of juicy information he'd soon have his hands on. The farm was only about an hour's drive outside the city limits. He could hardly contain his excitement. "So, who's up for a road trip?"

The front doors opened, a gust of wind howling through the entrance of the club. The noise startled all three men, Harvey even placing a hand on his belt as a precaution. The muted light from outside was extinguished behind the doors and Oswald stumbled to his feet at the sight of Sam. Her hair was loose and tousled from the wind and she did her best to smooth it down. Her chin rested on a thick, green scarf around her neck, the fabric cradling her rosy cheeks. A scarlet pleated skirt draped nicely just past her knees, which matched the tiny purse strapped across her chest. Thick, black leggings teased the shape of her calves. She wore her usual leather jacket, which was slowly becoming Oswald's favorite thing about her. He didn't feel right calling the scene adorable so he pushed the word away, then shoved it violently when he noticed a man walk in beside to her.

Jim rose from his chair, his eyes studying Oswald's pursed lips and tense shoulders.

"Let's meet here again in an hour," Oswald mumbled. His jaw tightened once Sam caught sight of him and her dimple appeared again. She waited at the bar and whispered something to the man beside her. The man swallowed a laugh, looking at Oswald.

Jim followed Penguin's gaze, then raised his eyebrows at his partner.

"Alright, one hour," Harvey repeated, then patted Penguin on the back with one, hard slap. "You kids have fun. Let's go, Jim."

Oswald forced a smile and turned his attention back to Sam, gesturing her to join him at the table. He waited until the door latched shut behind the detectives before speaking.

"Quite chilly outside today, isn't it?" Oswald asked, gently placing the expensive bottle of _Madre di Dios_ back into its box and locking it inside.

"Yeah, what happened to autumn, right?" the man joked and sat beside Sam. His features were strong and intimidating to anyone weak minded. His emerald eyes were striking and weren't afraid to look wherever they pleased. His light brown hair was stiff with product and lay in waves at his temples. He took hold of her hand, intertwining their fingers, and displaying the gesture on the table.

Oswald eyed the way his thumb stroked the back of her hand and the anxious knot returned almost painfully in his gut. His lay his own hands in his lap, hiding his clenched fists under the table cloth.

"I'm sorry, you are…?" Oswald said, keeping his tone calm.

Sam cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot, this–"

"It's Oswald," he interrupted. "Call me Oswald."

Sam smiled warmly, her dimple mocking him. "Oswald, this is Noah White, my boyfriend."

"Pleasure to finally meet you." Noah held out his hand in greeting and Oswald strained to relax his fist enough to respond. "Sammy has told me so much about you."

Oswald shook his hand once then forced them to part. "All good things, I hope." Her smile was killing him.

"Of course." Her fingers delicately adjusted her scarf closer to her neck. A momentary peek of a purple and red spot was seen on her skin and Oswald's face was hot almost immediately. A hickey was nothing more than a sign of possession and she had been marked.

"Are you still chilly? Would you like a warm drink?" His teeth would soon shatter if his jaws pressed together any harder.

"Oh, no thank you. We can't stay long."

 _She's an employee,_ Oswald reminded himself. _An employee is causing you to react this way. In any other scenario, it would be borderline sexual harassment. An employee is allowed to be in a relationship without her employer, and that is what is happening here. Your reaction is completely inappropriate._

"Then to what do I owe this visit?"

Sam chuckled and leaned forward. "In all the commotion last night, I forgot to collect my paycheck."

"Of course. If you wait a moment, I'll go get it for you."

His mind raced as he hobbled up the staircase toward the office. He felt foolish thinking for even a brief moment that she had come just for him, just for a friendly visit.

The _Madre di Dios_ was secure in the crook of his elbow; there was no way in hell he'd trust it alone with a stranger.

He unlocked the office door and stood in the threshold for a moment. He could hear the irrefutable bass of Noah's voice downstairs. He was most likely whispering sweet nothings as they waited for his return. What Oswald wouldn't give to sit next to her and touch her, maybe feel her lips on his cheek.

The thought felt rushed, almost out of place, but he didn't push it away like he had so many times before. He blamed his sudden jealousy, which had sprouted the moment Noah had opened his mouth. There had never been any previous indication that Sam was in a relationship. But why would she?

 _Did you expect her to announce it on her first day?_

He wanted what he couldn't have so why not let his mind run wild with fantasies?

He set the precious box on his desk. Dialing in the combination to the safe hidden behind a painting of some unknown Greek god, he couldn't help but compare himself to him. What could she see in Oswald if she had a tall, strong, and seemingly attractive lover already? The ugly little Penguin could never, and would never, be physically attractive the way society expected everyone to be. It had been his downfall in the past and would certainly be for the rest of his miserably lonely life. His finger traced down the bridge of his hooked nose.

He opened the safe with a jerk of the handle. It had been stuffed tightly from the weekend's success. He'd need to buy a bigger one very soon if said success continued. He plucked a stack of one hundred dollar bills, each bill crisp and secured by a mustard-colored band. Touching his fingers to his tongue, he counted out the promised amount of four hundred dollars. But it felt like an insult. So, without hesitating, his fingers glided over six more bills and tugged them from the band.

Closing the safe and twirling the combination to lock, he replaced the painting before leaving the office.

Over the balcony railing, he saw their table. Noah was sitting alone, drumming his fingers impatiently on the table. Oswald lightly stepped down the stairs, the bills tight in his fist.

The magician that was on stage had already left, probably out of frustration for performing in front of an empty room.

"Where's Samantha?" Oswald asked, hesitating before sitting back in his chair.

Noah jumped at his voice, then chuckled. "Wow, you're sneaky. She just went to the restroom. She shouldn't be much longer."

Oswald nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing, keeping his gaze away.

"The place looks great, by the way," Noah complimented. "I remember coming here a few times back when there was a fish skeleton sign outside."

"Yes, well, you won't be seeing any fish in here anymore."

"Oh, hey, is that the money?" Noah pointed to Oswald's tight grip. "I can take that if you want." He reached over but Oswald pulled away.

"I'd rather give it directly to her, if that's alright."

"What, you don't trust me?" Noah's eyes narrowed, his jaw adjusting in annoyance.

"We just met, so the fact that I don't shouldn't be a surprise to you."

"Are you suggesting I'd steal money from my girl?"

A 'yes' flashed instantaneously in his mind but Oswald didn't dare mutter it. "For thousands of years on this planet, humanity has been built on trade. Trading goods and services for other goods and services makes the world go 'round. This payment," he tapped the thousand dollars on the table, "is a good and will be given to the person who provided the services for my club. Only to her. So, until then, I will hold on to my trade for as long as need be."

Metaphorical smoke puffed from Noah's ears. The growing redness in his face forced Oswald to smile, which only made Noah more furious.

"You're a real prick," he hissed, staring daggers.

"I'm not the one being disrespectful to your girlfriend's employer, now am I? I'd be careful if I were you." He'd never dream of firing, or even threaten to fire, Sam but Noah didn't know that.

"Then maybe she should quit," Noah snapped, glancing around the empty club. "It looks pretty dead in here. Not a lot of opportunity for her."

Oswald scoffed. "You do realize it's a quarter past two on a Tuesday afternoon. Would any club be bustling at this time?" Though the emptiness did bother him, he'd wait a few more hours until he panicked. "If she chooses to quit for whatever business the club has or has not, it is between her and her employer."

 _I don't know what I'd do if she quit, though I'm sure I'll find out once her perfect boyfriend tells her about this conversation._

Sam stepped to the table, her brows furrowed at the sight of Noah's reddened face. "Everything alright?"

Oswald didn't speak, his icy eyes watching Noah, daring him to say anything, to say one tiny syllable in complaint. His fingers ran up the sides of the cash, the paper flicking against itself in a shuttering motion. His mouth curled mischievously. _I dare you._

"Just small talk." Noah mumbled. He didn't dare break Oswald's gaze and that only made the Penguin's smile wider, showing yellowed teeth.

Sam glanced between the two men, her face pained with worry. "Maybe I shouldn't leave you two alone from now on."

"Nonsense," Oswald said cheerfully. "It's all good, harmless fun." He stood, politely pushing his chair into the table. He handed the cash to her which she took with timid fingers.

"You don't mind if I…"

"No, not at all. Go right ahead." He watched as she counted the bills. She hesitated after counting four of them, just as he'd predicted.

"I think you gave me too much," Sam said, pulling out the access cash. "Didn't we agree on four hundred?" She gave the extra to Oswald, but he held up his hand.

"Consider it a token of my gratitude. I can't express how appreciative I am for what you've done for the club." His smile softened at the sudden glow in her cheeks.

"I didn't do anything special," she laughed weakly.

"Whether you think so or not, it was. I'd like to think of myself as a generous employer."

Sam stumbled over her words, holding the money tightly in her hands. "W-well, thank you." Her dimple returned, deeper than ever. "You don't know how much that means to me, to us." She fidgeted for a moment, turning to Noah then back to Oswald, unsure of what to do. She eventually handed Noah the cash, who flashed a crooked smile and pocketed the stack.

Oswald's own smile faded at the sight and opened his mouth to speak but the air squeezed from his lungs as Sam wrapped her arms around him. He gasped involuntarily, the smell of her perfume overpowering his senses so much that he had no choice but to happily drown in it.

 _Lavender and vanilla?  
_

His hands rested on her shoulder blades, unsure how tightly or informal he should respond. But from the way Noah's mouth strained to keep his smile, it all seemed perfect enough for that brief moment of their embrace. The warmth in Oswald's chest cooled a fraction as Sam pulled away.

She smiled shyly and took a step back. "Sorry." She laughed again, nothing more than a sharp breath. She turned to Noah for a brief moment and her smile immediately faltered.

Oswald noticed, his brow dipping.

"I'm sorry," Sam said again, her voice barely louder than a whisper. "I just very thankful, more than you know." She turned to Noah once more, and her bottom lip trembled.

"No harm done," Oswald said, studying her eyes where tears began to form.

"I think it's time to go," Noah said through clasped teeth. "We've got plans tonight, remember?" His stare was intense.

"Yes, plans," Sam agreed, her shaky voice betraying her.

"Before you leave," Oswald started, his stomach knotting into itself, "I believe you left your guitar here last night." His pulse raced down the side of his throat. "We had to move it backstage to make room for the magician today. If you'll follow me, I can show where it is." He outstretched his arm, gesturing toward the stage.

 _Please, come with me._

"Oh, right, of course." Her fingers wriggled through themselves. Her hands trembled. "I'll be back in a moment," she told Noah. "I won't be long." She began walking but Noah grabbed her wrist.

"Why don't I join you?" he insisted and stood, staring down at Oswald, who hadn't realized how much taller he was.

"Only employees are allowed backstage, I'm afraid," Oswald retorted, sizing up the brute. He'd dealt with bigger men in the past. "It's a safety issue, you understand. I'd hate for something to fall from the rafters and injure you. Because Samantha is my employee, I've made sure to insure her on the off chance she's hurt in my club." His knuckle rapped on the table. "Knock on wood."

"It'll just be a minute," Sam said, a shaking hand touching his arm reassuringly. "Just a minute then we can leave. Ok?"

"A minute," Noah repeated and sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. "Then we're leaving."

Oswald followed Sam closely as they walked across the room to the stage, glancing down to watch her skirt sway against her steps. His back stiffened at the sound of snickering behind him. He couldn't bring her backstage quick enough. Once they were, Sam turned to him, unable to make eye contact. She continued to pick at the callus on her thumb.

The backstage area was mostly empty including the rafters above. The drum set still sat on a pallet, tucked away in the corner. Various other instruments were strewn around as backup from Fish's days. Extra chairs and tables were stacked on top of each other in the other corner, gathering dust. Then there was a corner filled with boxes upon boxes of lightbulbs, just to keep Victor quiet.

"Where to?" she asked and sniffled.

"Are you alright?" Oswald stepped closer, while still keeping a professional distance.

"Oh, yeah," she laughed, smiling for a moment. "I think I'm getting a cold, that's all." She glanced around the darkened, mostly empty area. "Where is it?"

"Samantha… tell me what's going on."

"Nothing's going on. What I do in my personal life is none of your business anyway." She stepped back from him. "If you're not going to tell me where my guitar is I'm just going to leave."

"Because you _have_ to leave immediately. Because of your big plans tonight." His arms folded over his chest. "If you were in danger, would you tell me?"

"What exactly are you suggesting?"

With one finger, he caught a tear running down her cheek. She flinched. Her skin was soft, and so painfully fragile. "I'm suggesting something is going on that you're not being honest about." He could see it in her eyes, the lingering fear that escalated the more they spoke.

Had that even been a hickey on her neck? Bruises could be created by many different things.

"There's nothing going on, I told you that already."

"Then why are you scared of him?"

Sam said nothing, her breathing exhaling in puffs. Her jaw tensed, her eyes glancing to the ceiling in time for two streams falling from them. Oswald pulled his pocket square from his jacket and handed it to her. She only shook her head, wiping her hand over her face and sighing.

"I'm giving you once more chance," she whispered, trying to keep it together. The tears were flowing freely now. "Where is my guitar?"

No matter how badly he wanted to, Oswald knew how inappropriate it would be to kiss her. Would a hug be alright? Would she even want one after he'd accused her boyfriend of abusing her? Rightfully accused, he feared, but other than a few glances between the two, he had no evidence to support any theory.

"I'll tell you if you allow me one thing," he said, tucking the cloth back into his jacket.

She waited.

"That scarf is so lovely," he complimented and watched her cheeks redden in quick realization. "May I touch it? It looks very soft."

With a huff, she unwrapped the scarf from her neck and shoved it at him. "You can have it and my guitar. I'm done." The side of her neck was spotless in the dim light. But he could've sworn he saw…

She turned to leave but Oswald grabbed her elbow.

"Samantha–"

"If you don't let go of me in three seconds I swear I'll…" The black pools of her eyes threatened, almost dared him. She wiped away her tears once again.

Oswald's hand slid down her arm and he took her hand, laying her scarf in it, curling her fingers around it. "Your guitar is over there." He gestured to the far corner behind her, the neck of the case peeking over the drum set. He watched her stomp to it, open it for a brief moment, then stomp back. She didn't make eye contact as she walked past, but Oswald grabbed her elbow again.

"Just one more thing," he said quickly before she could consider what she'd do. From a plastic cup of writing utensils sitting on top of a podium next to him, he grabbed a red pen. He pulled a black business card belonging to the club from the inside pocket of his jacket and wrote his cellphone number on the back. "If for any reason you need something… even if it's a favor to ask or a shoulder to cry on, that is my personal number." He handed her the card but she only looked at it. "Even if you choose to throw it away immediately after you leave here, please take it. And know that… I'm worried." The words didn't necessarily roll of his tongue easily. His pride was bruising before her eyes. "Is a Friday night performance this week alright with you? Say, eight o'clock?"

She hesitated, the seconds lingering thickly, before saying, "This conversation hasn't exactly been a good reason to come back."

"Then I'll double the payment and make you a weekly performer, every Saturday night at eight o'clock." The words blurted out before Oswald had a moment to think. Although he was in charge of keeping the club afloat, the money brought in was ultimately Don Falcone's. How would he feel about such a pay raise after she had only performed at the club once? There was no doubt Zsasz would be paying them a visit very, very soon.

Noah's voice boomed. "Sam, let's _go_!"

 _Please, don't leave._ Oswald watched her eyes shift from him to the stage as she thought.

"Fine, Saturday night," she finally decided. "Only if I don't hear about this ever again. There's nothing going on that you need to be concerned about."

 _If I see any hint of suspicious activity, don't think I won't kill him._

"I'll see you later then," she huffed. With her scarf in one hand and her guitar in the other, she left Oswald alone in the dark with nothing but his thoughts.

It would be so easy to just steal her away where Oswald would know she was safe. But despite his negative feelings and suspicions toward Noah, she still seemed to love him. Perhaps it was just jealousy toward him that had distorted his perception. Maybe there hadn't been bruises or fear in her eyes. But then why had she cried when he asked about it?

He only hoped she'd keep his card.


	5. Chapter 5 - Smothered

Chapter 5 - Smothered

* * *

"It was only a friendly hug," Sam insisted. Her hand fidgeted in the pocket of her jacket, her thumb flicking against the sharp corner of Oswald's business card. She had left her mace at home. She could only imagine what would happen if Noah found it on her. She walked lopsided, her guitar case banging against her thigh.

"We'll talk about this inside," Noah ordered, unlocking the door to their apartment. He flicked on the lights and shouldered off his coat quietly, hanging it over the couch.

Sam followed cautiously, closing the door behind her. She propped her guitar case against the wall. "Babe, I was only thankful for the extra cash. A hug is harmless." She pulled off her purse and jacket, setting them on the couch as well.

He pulled the cash from his coat and slid it in his back pocket. He kicked off his shoes, which was crusted with salt from the icy sidewalk. Shuffling to the kitchen, he grabbed a cold bottle of beer and down half of it in one gulp.

"Talk to me." She held herself, swallowing back tears, anxiety growing quickly.

Noah stomped to her, holding out the bottle. "Drink."

She pushed it away lightly. "No, thank you. I'm not thirsty."

His fingers were in her hair, yanking her head back. As her mouth opened in a wince, a slipped the bottle past her lips, dumping the contents down her throat. She gagged and spat, smacking the bottle away as she choked. The glass broke against the edge of the coffee table, spilling the last of the beer on the carpet.

"Are you cheating on me with _him_?" he growled, his grasp still tight in her hair.

"I'm not!" she cried, trying to pry his fingers from her scalp. "Stop, you're hurting me!"

"I saw the way he looked at you. You're all up on him, acting like some slut. You really thought I wouldn't notice? And you wear a _skirt_ to visit him?" He pulled her to the couch, tripping her over the arm so she landed on her stomach.

"I've worn it before. I thought you liked it."

"And then you disappeared with him for so long?" He gathered her hands behind her back. "Did you have fun sucking him off while I waited patiently for you?"

He propped himself up and dug his knee into her lower back. His palm pushed into the back of her head, smothering her face as she screamed. Her legs flailed as she tried to produce enough leverage to stand. His hand gripped her hair, his fist slamming into the back of her head.

"That was pretty smart of me to tell you to go put makeup on your neck," he chuckled, smearing his grip on her head teasingly. "I told you it was a good idea. We fooled that prick."

Sam's lungs ached as she struggled to breathe, her tears drenching her face. She couldn't move. She couldn't do anything but fail to fight back. And all she could think of how stupid she was. Why hadn't she told Oswald the truth about everything? She hated how she had treated him. And now that would all he'd think about once she was gone.

 _I'm going to die; this is how it goes. This is how you deserve to go._

She involuntarily started gasping, her pressured chest heaving with quick, shallow breaths. Her body was on its last resort. A high pitched ringing stabbed through her brain. Her muscles weakened and struggling became nearly impossible. Her vision tunneled and slowly she was floating, unable to grasp time or space. The tunnel collapsed on top of her and unconsciousness was welcoming.

* * *

With a satisfied grunt, Noah released her hair, his knuckles aching from the strain. His fingers searched her throat and found her pulse, as faint as it was. He stood over her and fixed her skirt to cover her legs.

"Don't be indecent," he joked and patted her rear affectionately. "That _is_ a nice color on you though. You should wear it more often." Grabbing her hair one final time, he turned her head to the side. He couldn't have her dying on him.

He sighed and stretched from his fingers to his toes. He didn't truly believe she would cheat on him, especially with some freak show reject like Cobblepot. He was so weak there was no way he could control Sam like Noah could. She needed to be reeled in or else she'd certainly sleep with every one of her fans.

He palmed his back pocket, checking to see that the cash was still there. He couldn't believe she had given up the money so easily, especially in front of Cobblepot after they had just argued about it. He loved seeing the look on his face as she gave up her earnings, however hard she had worked for it. They were both complete idiots. Of course she'd give him the money. She was irresponsible after all and couldn't handle the pressure of taking care of money.

Bending down, he picked up the larger pieces of the broken bottle, pressing the beer into the carpet to help it absorb.

A black card lay in the puddle, the material moist and fragile. It read _The Iceberg Lounge_ in blue cursive print with the address and main phone number underneath it. He turned it over. The penmanship was draining into the alcohol but he could distinctly see the first few digits of a phone number.

His certainty was now growing thin. She hadn't cheated, right? She wouldn't dare cheat on him with that birdy little bitch in clown clothes, would she?

He reared back and spat on Sam's face.


	6. Chapter 6 - Fireball

Chapter 6 - Fireball

* * *

Jim Gordon woke with a frustrated grunt, his cellphone vibrating on the bedside table near his head. His pillow was too soft, the blankets too warm, his body too comfortable for the day to be starting already. But the phone continued to jump about the table, the captain's name flashing on the outer screen. He propped himself on his elbow, stretched, then flipped open his phone.

"Go ahead, Cap," he mumbled, trying to keep his voice down. But Lee stirred beside him, wrapping her arm around his waist and resting her cheek on his bare back.

"Jim, sorry to call so early," Captain Essen said, a hint of urgency in her voice, "but a stiff was found about a half hour ago by a uniform on her patrol. I need you to get down to the docks ASAP, it's going to start snowing again soon. I'll be calling Bullock after this. Sorry, everyone else is swamped."

"You know Harvey isn't going to want to be up at," Jim checked the time on his phone and groaned, "geez, five in the morning." He and Lee had had a spectacularly restless night, which he was now starting to feel in his muscles. "We usually don't have shifts before the sun rises."

"I'll give both of you double overtime, but I need you there. Forensics is already on their way."

The promise of extra pay didn't sway the sleepy headache growing in between his eyes. "Alright, I'll be there in an hour." He flipped his phone shut, resting the cool plastic on his forehead. "Lee, go back to sleep." His hand traced the length of her forearm soothingly.

"Only if I get a kiss first," she purred.

Jim stood, arching his back until he felt the air pop from his joints. He'd gone into work with less sleep before but that fact didn't make it any easier. With shaky shoulders, he leaned over his happily naked girlfriend and kissed her tenderly. Her hands cupped his face weakly.

"I'll see you later," he whispered and kissed her again before walking to the bathroom to start his morning routine: shower, brush teeth, comb hair, dry, dress, secure his weapon and out the door within thirty minutes.

He chased the sunrise on his way to the docks, stopping for a cup of coffee, and making it to the scene with two minutes to spare. He parked near the coroner's van and, with his steaming cup firm in his gloved hand, sauntered to where they were gathered. The wind's bite stung his face. As he walked closer, he could see the pink blouse of a woman lying near the edge of the water. Ed Nygma stood over her, writing in his small notebook. A fellow forensic investigator was nearby, taking photos of blood spatter labeled with a folded paper of the number four.

"Good morning, Detective," Ed smiled, unusually chipper for the early hour. Wool earmuffs hugged his head. He stood over the stiff body that was tucked into the fetal position, her breasts and stomach squeezed into a blouse a few sizes too small. Blood caked her neck and shoulders. Her legs were folded neatly against her chest, one pant leg ripped at the knee. The button and zipper on the pants themselves were undone. Her skin, once dark and probably very sensual, was now clouded and blue. Black hair shrouded her face, a red hairclip tangled in its frozen web.

"Morning, Ed." Jim took a sip of his drink, burning his tongue. "Who do we have here?"

"Jane Doe, still pretty fresh," Ed commented, not taking his eyes off his notes. "Estimated time of death seems to be around two o'clock. The spatter originates down there." With his pen, he pointed to an alleyway between two warehouses where labels three, two and one were on the ground. "No sign of a weapon, but from the cut I'd guess something small with a sharp edge, possibly switchblade or razor."

Jim squatted down closer to the body. The blood had drenched her skin and blouse, the area too mangled to see the actual wound. Scuffs bloodied her palms and knees.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Ed teased, flashing one of his famous toothy grins.

"And what exactly are we thinking?" Jim took another sip, the burn less painful.

"I mean, of course she'd need to be cleaned and prepped, but don't you think these wounds are consistent with a few other bodies that's popped up recently?"

Jim's mouth twisted in doubt. "Maybe. I'll need to see the final report before we jump to any conclusions." Leaning farther down, he noticed the side of her neck was bruised. "Let me know if you find anything else," Jim grumbled sleepily, finishing his coffee. "Where's the officer who discovered the body?"

Once again, with his pen, Ed pointed to a uniformed woman smoking at her car behind the yellow tape. When she noticed Jim approaching her, she stomped out her cigarette.

"Officer Pierce, sir," she introduced, shaking his hand.

"Nice to meet you," Jim said, surprised by her friendliness. "Can you tell me what happened this morning?"

"Yes, sir. I was just doing my normal morning route when I saw the woman lying on her side by the water, around four thirty. I got out to see if she was alright, but she was stiff. So, I called it in."

"And you saw nothing suspicious? No one lingering around? No weapon of any kind?"

Pierce shook her head. "The only thing I saw was her, sorry."

Harvey groaned exaggeratedly behind Jim. "So, basically, I woke up this early for nothing!"

"Morning, Harvey." Jim flashed a strained grin in his direction. "Glad you could join us." He thanked the officer, dismissing her.

"Don't start, Jim." He adjusted his sunglasses. "I'm working off a major Fireball hangover and I don't need your attitude. So, please, for God's sake, talk quietly."

Jim chuckled softly at the ridiculous display. Harvey wasn't always the straightest cop but at least he was never boring.

"I'm here, so you might as well tell me why." Harvey took a sip of his own coffee cup, which he no doubt spiked with more Fireball to ease the pain between his eyes.

"African-American Jane Doe, late twenties, with obvious signs of foul play. She has cuts on her palms and knees and there's a trail of blood so we can only assume she tried to crawl away from her attacker. There seemed to be a gash around her shoulder and neck area, but we won't be certain until Dr. Thompkins can examine her."

"An awful lot of dead girls with similar gashes seem to be showing up lately. What is this, number four?"

"Just let Lee take a look first."


	7. Chapter 7 - Yellow Roses

Chapter 7 - Yellow Roses

* * *

Sam's eyes opened to tiny slits, and she saw nothing but blurred shapes and colors. Her muscles wouldn't budge. She was still on the couch, she knew, from the way her arm hung over the edge. Her feet were cold, pins and needles stabbing into her soles. She blinked, the shapes becoming sharper.

A bottle of liquid sleep aid on the table was the first thing she saw. The second was a small puddle of residue collected in concave of a sterling silver spoon beside it. Then the taste emerged and her stomach churned angrily. The medicine had collected into a paste around her lips which she pried apart to cough.

Her fingers trailed up the back of the couch and gripped a loose chunk of the cushion to help pull herself up. Her back screamed, her stomach ached, her shoulders burned. Her neck stayed stiff as it had been for who knew how many hours. She couldn't move her legs for several minutes as the blood began flowing through them again.

The apartment was dark except for a few streaks of cool, early morning light seeping through the blinds on the opposite side of the room. She forced her neck to turn. The clock on the wall above her stated it was close to six o'clock, but her eyes couldn't see the exact time.

With a pitiful grunt, she swung her legs to the floor, the carpet surging pain into her ankles. She sat still, trying to calm her body. The tears came without effort as her head pulsated viciously. Other than for frustration, pain, or betrayal, she had no reason to cry. It hadn't been the first time Noah used the sleep aid to keep her sedated when he wanted, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. She was surprised she wasn't used to it.

Bracing herself against the coffee table, she stood. Her hips and knees popped gloriously, and she tilted herself backwards to allow her back and neck to do so as well. The throbbing in her head threatened to pull her back down on the couch but she held onto the arm for support.

She couldn't recall how long she'd been asleep. What time did she get home yesterday? What time was it again? She tried looking back at the clock but the room was spinning. When was the last time she ate? She couldn't remember eating at all before visiting Oswald–

The tears flowed harder, shame engulfing her almost immediately. All he had wanted was to help her. He said he was worried. The way she had treated him was so… pathetic. The last thing she had wanted was a fight and yet there she was, barely on her feet in the quiet darkness of her own home.

Why couldn't Noah see that she loved him so much? How could she ever cheat on him with anyone? She was his and only his. She wasn't sure how else she could show or tell him. She loved him so much she was willing to cut her own skin as punishment, as soon as her legs were able to move.

Her muscles shook as she took her first step, her second step. The motion didn't take long to become natural and soon she was in the bathroom, the latch promptly locked.

She stayed in the darkness and saw herself in the mirror, her skin illuminated by the pale light shining through the frosted glass of the window near the shower. Her lips were purple, sticky and dry from the medicine. Her eyeliner and shadow were smeared, streaks of black running down her face. She was hideous, per usual, but because of her sore body and weak mind, she couldn't even see herself as a person. She was a thing, a horrible, disgusting thing. And she deserved to be called that. Of course she did. Oswald didn't know what he was talking about.

But she liked that he tried. It felt nice the same way hugging him felt nice. She truly hadn't meant to do it. She had been so thankful that it was the first thing that came to mind. So, she did it. She had expected his body to be softer as his layers of clothing portrayed, but his torso was solid and thin. And then when his hands were on her back, however brief of a moment it had been, it was an odd feeling of almost relaxation. She felt safe against him even if Noah had been standing just a few feet from them. Shouldn't the feeling be the other way around? Shouldn't Noah be the one she was safe with? She did, at times, when she was at her lowest. He'd hold her as she sliced her skin, whispering bits of encouragement and love in her ear. But it had been weeks since he did that. She had the sinking feeling that Oswald would not be the kind of person to do that for her. He seemed more the type to take the blades away from her. She wasn't sure she liked that idea.

Just the thought of it dropped her to her knees. She desperately searched through the bottom left hand drawer and plucked the matchbox from inside. It wasn't long before she pulled away her black leggings and lifted her skirt, sinking a clean blade across the top of her left thigh. She traced along the burgundy lines of healing flesh from days before, and soon the blood seeped through.

Her breathing skipped from her lungs as she sobbed, as she continued to cut line after line. Once again, the comforting warmth of the process refused to surface but she still dragged the sharp edge across her skin. The strokes grew frantic until one carved too deep. She cried out and held her palms to the carnage. Her lips curled back, her nose wrinkled. She was such a disgrace. Such a horrid, vile disgrace to everyone who knew her.

 _If for any reason you need something… even if it's a favor to ask or a shoulder to cry on…_

Oswald's tender voice echoed in her mind.

 _And know that… I'm worried._

She couldn't imagine calling him with a trembling voice and telling him everything. It felt weak, like she was giving up. She had made it all these years alone, why couldn't she keep going? She could. She was capable of it.

 _And know that… I'm worried._

What reason should he have to be worried? Everything was just fine.

She lifted her hands for a brief moment, the blood reflecting angrily back at her.

He should be worried. He should be worried that one day she'd cut too deep, too often or too quickly and it would be over. He should be worried that she was already too far gone for any kind of help.

Her forehead dipped lightly onto her leg. The tip of her nose was moistened and copper engulfed her nostrils.

She needed to see him, even if it was just as she passed by the club. Just a glimpse of his silly, spikey hair. She laughed through her tears for a brief moment. His hair, his clothes and the way he spoke was all so strange. He was always so proper in his own ridiculous way, almost as if he had been ripped from an old black and white portrait. And it was all so wonderful.

If she was going to visit him, a long, hot shower was needed first. After stripping gingerly, she was soon standing in the warm shower, watching red water run off her leg. Her thigh throbbed, the warm water adding heat to the inflamed wounds. She'd have to find a new place for next time before disturbing the area again. She washed quickly but thoroughly, picking away at an old scab on her shoulder.

Once she finished washing, she dried her leg with a series of dabs with her towel before dressing it in thick gauze. She then replaced the gauze on her shoulders, the bite marks still red and sensitive.

She dressed much more modestly than the day before. She chose a simple set of jeans and a black sweater. She collected her skirts and leggings into a pile in the corner of their closet to throw away later on. The last thing she needed was to give Noah an excuse to accuse her of cheating again. Better to prepare for the future than face the consequences. She didn't bother with any makeup that day, except for a bit of foundation on the bruises on her neck, and left her hair down to air dry.

Walking down the hall to the front door where her boots were, she stopped just outside their tiny nook of a kitchen. On the counter was a large bouquet of yellow roses soaking gracefully in a tall, glass vase. Beside it was a card, opened and propped on its side. It was blank, white and spotless, except for a single word written in cursive on the front.

 _Sorry_

Sam knew immediately it was Noah's handwriting. He was the only person she knew who swooped the tail of his Ys into a figure eight. She hesitantly took the card and opened it.

 _Sammy –_

 _I don't know what came over me yesterday. I was so angry. I couldn't control myself. I'm so very sorry. You know I wouldn't hurt you if I could help it. I just worry about keeping you safe from bad people. I love you so much baby. Please forgive me. Let's go out and have dinner tonight. I should be home around seven o'clock._

 _I love you,_

 _Noah_

Sam closed the note, running her fingertips around the bumps of the expensive paper.

"I knew it," she whispered. She opened the note and read it again. Of course he hadn't meant to hurt her. He never did. She knew that, she just needed a reminder. She loved him. He loved her. They were meant to be.

She leaned over, inhaling a rose. The scent was soft and it warmed her sadness. The flowers were beautiful. She couldn't remember the last time he had given her flowers, if he had at all.

He certainly knew how to ask for forgiveness. She'd be a horrible person if she denied him after such a gesture. Dinner alone with him? It sounded too good to be true. He always worked late into the evening, so dinners were often out of the question. She giggled at the anticipation. It all sounded so romantic. What would she wear? How should she do her hair? Suddenly keeping the skirts and leggings sounded like a much better idea. Perhaps she'd keep and wear them just for him.

She read the note again and couldn't stop smiling. It was happening. He was changing. He knew the error of his ways and wanted to be good like he used to be. She knew if she waited long enough she'd find happiness. And happiness was just around the corner.

She kissed the card and tucked it into her back pocket to read again later. But first thing was first. Despite her sudden bout of glee, The Iceberg Lounge was still her top priority for that morning. She'd pop in, say hello, then leave. She wanted to give herself enough time to get ready for her exciting night.

* * *

The neon umbrella mounted to the face of the club was turned off. It shouldn't have surprised Sam as much as it did. She tried the door anyway, tugging at the handle. Of course, it didn't budge. Why did she think it would be open so early in the morning? In fact, she had no idea what time it actually opened. There was were posted hours on the door or anywhere else on the building. But she tried the door again anyway.

Flecks of white were beginning to drift from the sky and she had wished she had dried her hair more than she had. She cupped her gloved hands over her mouth to shield against the accelerating wind.

If it wasn't open, what could she do? She didn't want to leave.

An angry gurgle bubbled up in the back of her throat. When was the last time she ate? Why hadn't she grabbed a quick bite before she left the apartment?

She tried the door again.

She wanted to wait there, sitting by the curb until someone turned the lights on. But the snow was starting to stick to the pavement. How long would it take for her to freeze to death, sitting there alone with nothing but a jacket, gloves and wool hat to keep her warm? Would it hurt when her fingers began to lose their color? Would it hurt to–

The door swung open. Sam gasped, her boot slipping off the step. Her back hit the cement, knocking the wind from her lungs. Her head only grazed the surface with quick thinking, the pain nothing more than a short, sharp jab.

"Are you alright?" A massive shadow hovered over her and Butch soon came into focus. "Sam? Say something."

"What the hell," was all she managed to speak, grasping at her sore tailbone.

"Was that you knocking on the door?" He offered a hand to help her up but she didn't want to take it, too afraid to move. "Do you need an ambulance?"

"No ambulance," she blurted and took his hand, grinding her teeth as she was lifted. "No ambulance." She hadn't been to a hospital in years and she could only imagine what they would force her to do when they saw her scars. She'd be locked up in the loony bin for sure.

"Well, then come in. I'll get you some ice for your back." With strong, steady hands, Butch led her inside the quiet club. Only the section of lights toward the front of the club was turned on, the stage hidden away in darkness. A thick binder was open at the bar, a calculator and yellow note pad next to it. A pair of silver cufflinks sat beside them.

Butch sat her down at the booth, it's back gated by the room divider. Sam sank into the cushion, the pressure like jagged glass on her tailbone. Her chin trembled. She hadn't experienced a pain quite like it in a long time and she couldn't escape it however she sat.

"Give me a second," Butch said, then scurried into the kitchen. A moment later, he came with a cold compress wrapped in a dish towel. The he helped press it against her lower back and she eased back slowly.

She thanked him softly, swallowing tears. Whether the tears were from the pain or her own embarrassment she couldn't tell. Most likely it was a combination.

"Why were you trying to get in? Especially so early. You know we don't open until ten o'clock, right?" Butch asked. The sleeves of his pressed, white shirt were rolled up to his elbows, his silver tie loose around his neck. His suit jacket was draped neatly over a bar stool, the pocket square tucked haphazardly in its place.

"I don't even know what time it is," she sighed, feeling especially idiotic. "I just wanted to kill time so I figured I'd come visit."

 _You're so incredibly stupid._

"You come to bars at a quarter to eight in the morning?" Butch's brow raised. His eyes studied her and she felt self-conscious immediately, wondering if any of her scars were peeking through her clothing.

Sam only shrugged. She pulled off her wool cap, tucking her gloves inside.

"Well, you can stay if you want to. I'm just doing some bookkeeping before we open, so sorry I can't entertain you. I'd offer you something but," his face turned in apology, "I'd have to make you pay for it. House rules."

"I don't have any money anyway," she exhaled.

Butch paused for a moment, glancing back at the open binder. "Didn't Oswald pay you just yesterday? I know he put it in the book." His eyebrows raised in astonishment. "Quite a hefty pay raise, too."

"Yes, he did," was all she'd say on the subject. There was no need to explain to him why her money was already gone. She could only imagine what he was thinking. Did she spend it on drugs or sex?

 _Take your pick, Butch. They're both wrong._

"Well, then…" His voice trailed off, ultimately dropping the subject. "Let me know if you need anything." He walked across the room, his shiny shoes tapping against the linoleum. "Oswald should be here in an hour or so."

* * *

Sam hadn't realized she'd fallen asleep until the latch of the front door was unlocked and bright white light flooded into the darkness of the club. The wind propelled soft snow through the threshold and Oswald grunted as he hurried inside, Gabe following close. The bodyguard closed and locked the door behind them.

Oswald puffed a mouthful of air, the steam still hovering around his face. His hair was windblown, which he promptly began patting down as best he could. His black, wool coat was speckled with white. He brushed a layer off his shoulders before removing his coat and handing it to Gabe. He thanked him then adjusted a cufflink.

"Morning, Butch," he said, limping gingerly to him. His lips were tight, his hand holding his knee. "How's everything looking? All even, I hope." He glanced at the books over his shoulder, scanning the numbers.

But Butch turned to Sam, motioning to her. Oswald paled when he saw her sitting there, her head resting on her arms, the tired look in her eyes. He hurried to her, leaning forward over the table.

Sam jumped back. She apologized immediately almost on pure instinct. "I didn't know I couldn't come in. I'm sorry."

"What happened?" he snapped. "Where is he?" There was an odd intensity in his eyes, something she hadn't seen from him before. Was it… fear? His hand sat stiffly on the table in front of them, his posture crooked as he held his weight on his good leg.

It took a moment for Sam to realize what he said. Her expression hardened. How dare he! "I thought we agreed you'd stop accusing?" Her dark eyes bore into him but neither of them broke their stares.

Oswald forced his body to loosen, his eyes widening a fraction at her sudden tone. His voice turned to velvet, soft and inviting, nothing more than a purr. "All I'm asking is what happened."

"And where he is."

"I withdraw the question then." He raised his hands defensively.

"Good. I don't want to hear it." Her words surprised her just as much as they had him. She hadn't meant for her tone to be so harsh but his nagging about Noah was beginning to get on her nerves. Her personal life with her boyfriend was _still_ absolutely none of her boss's business. That was that, end of story. "I just needed to get out of the apartment. I couldn't sleep." Her face flushed as the lie spurted from her lips.

Oswald's frown deepened. "And this?" Sam jumped as he pulled the once cold compress from behind her back. It slapped down on the table in a sloshy pile.

Sam pointed a casual finger at him. "That is from _your_ entranceway not being salted on an icy day. You know, I could sue you for that." Her smile betrayed her threat. "I'll be fine. I've fallen off of higher places than a few stairs. Though, I have to admit, my ass is killing me."

He smirked at her choice of words and her smile widened.

"I do apologize for that. Thank you for bringing it my attention." He turned to Butch, who was still punching numbers into the calculator. Oswald flinched as he stepped forward once, his fist grasping his pant leg. "Butch, once you're done with that the front steps need to be salted. But before that, Samantha needs more ice."

Butch twitched in his seat. "Yes, Boss."

"No, no, no." Sam reached over and slapped Oswald on the arm. The movement sent a lightning bolt into her tailbone. "Stop doing that."

Oswald glanced at his sleeve as if she had contaminated it.

"Saying please isn't that horrible. Even when you got mad at me for not having a drink with you, you said please." She glanced smugly up at him. Her attitude toward him was strange to her. She'd never act this way around Noah, she'd never dare to. What made Oswald so different? Perhaps she felt more comfortable around him than she thought.

He rolled his eyes. He struggled internally but mumbled, "Please, Butch."

Butch turned, his face red, his body convulsing as he held back a hearty laugh. "Sure thing, _Boss_."

Oswald only groaned then turned back to Sam abruptly. His body pained for a moment. He shuffled his weight again.

"Would you just sit down already?" Sam raised her eyebrows, her eyes gesturing to the booth across from her. If she had to watch him hurt for one more second, she'd _make_ him sit.

With a few purposeful steps, Oswald collapsed into the booth. His leg rested out and he massaged his knee with a tightened jaw.

"If I'm not allowed to make accusations," he began through gritted teeth, "then you're not allowed hold my sour mood against me. I've already apologized for that night and you've forgiven me."

She paused for a moment. She hadn't realized the topic had left an impact on him. She was only playing, or at least attempting to. "I'm sorry." Her mood plummeted.

"No need to apologize. I'm just making a request." His crooked smile returned, his hand now only resting on his knee. "A rather aggressive request, but one nonetheless."

Her head tilted in a halfhearted nod of acknowledgment before she tucked into herself. The conversation had taken an awkward turn and she was to blame for it. Maybe she shouldn't be around people anymore. She needed to stay in her apartment and rot away alone in the bathroom. Her skin ached to be sliced despite the lingering wonder of why it no longer felt good.

 _You should just leave. You've caused enough trouble._

A loud gurgle burst from her throat. Sam cupped her mouth to hide the sound, her face reddening at Oswald's laugh.

"Is it safe to assume you're hungry?"

Sam chuckled embarrassingly. "Maybe a little."

Oswald shuffled in the booth, ready to stand, but Gabe approached. "Just sit down, Boss. Rest your leg." He turned to Sam, a warm smile folded into the wrinkles of his lips. Sam liked Gabe, from what little time they had shared together. He was always nice and polite, almost like a father-figure.

Her gaze dipped, staring at the intricate design of Oswald's vest. A flash her dad's reddening skin sunbathing in the bright summer sun swam into her mind. She bit the inside of her cheek.

"Samantha?" Oswald's hand reached out and touched her anxious fingers as they wriggled into themselves. Sam looked up, his worried eyes forcing her stomach to flip.

"I'm sorry, what?" she said, snapping from her thoughts. She continued to bite her cheek.

"Gabe asked if you wanted anything to eat."

Sam glanced down at their hands, his touch light against her skin. He retreated his hand swiftly, tucking it in his lap. She hated that she wanted to take his hand and place it back on her.

"Oh, sure."

"Anything in particular?" Gabe asked.

"Nothing too fancy. Something simple like a tuna sandwich or something."

"Tuna it is." Gabe gave a playful wink then sauntered back into the kitchen.

Butch chuckled from his seat and mumbled something to himself.

"What's that, Butch?" Oswald called out, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Would you like to share with the group?"

Butch shook his head. "I'd like to stay in one piece, thanks."

"Oh, just leave him alone," Sam badgered, waving her hand to keep Oswald's attention. "He's working." She hated how irritating she was sounding. She just needed to keep her mouth shut. Noah's voice snaked itself into her thoughts.

 _Just for once, shut up._

"Samantha."

Sam blinked. Oswald was staring intently.

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"About?"

She ran her fingers through her hair, still feeling a few damp spots on her scalp. "Where does the name Cobblepot come from? I've never heard it before."

He exhaled a chuckle, seemingly surprised by the question. "Well, originally the name was Kapelput. My mother came to Gotham from Germany when she was young. When I was born, she gave me Cobblepot instead so it would sound less foreign, I suppose." He waved a dismissive hand. "It certainly wouldn't have made a difference."

"Is your father from Germany too?"

Oswald's mouth dipped slightly. "No, he was born here, from what I remember. I never had the chance to meet him. He died shortly after I was born. Mother says it was a heart attack."

Sam had propped her elbow on the table, her cheek resting on her palm. She was quickly growing to love the way he spoke, despite the sorrowful subject. It was elegant and purposeful, his pronunciations holding weight as if they always spoke of utmost importance.

Oswald leaned forward, keeping his own elbows off the table. "I'm not boring you, am I?"

"Of course not." She couldn't imagine an eccentric individual like Oswald was capable of being boring.

Leaning to one side, wincing at the pain, she pulled out her wallet. It was a simple bifold, the corners worn, the leather stretched from years of use. She opened it, searching through the small photos she kept inside; they had replaced cash long since she began living with Noah.

A portrait of her grandmother smiled up at her first, black and white and faded. A snapshot of Sam as a child was next, her small, pudgy body attempting to climb up a slide. A family Golden Retriever. A forest in their backyard, drenched in a perfect snowfall. Fields of corn ready to be harvested. Her past was all tucked away inside her wallet. It was all she had left. Sifting through the photos, she pulled out the last and slid it across the table to Oswald.

"Those are my parents," she explained, watching his eyes dance around the photo. "It's my favorite picture of them."

A burly man with short, rusty hair stood in the middle of a field, his jeans hanging off his hips, the knees stained green. Tattoos covered his sunburned arms and chest, their flowing designs too difficult to read from the distance of the camera. He smiled down on a woman about a foot shorter than he, her olive skin a stark contrast to his. Her ebony hair twisted in the wind. She wore a white dress, the bust embroidered with floral patterns. She smiled directly into the camera, one hand supporting a bulging belly. Between them was a small girl, dressed in baggy overalls. Her smile was wide and silly, her two front teeth missing. Her dark hair and skin proved she was her mother's child. A farmhouse sat in the far distance, a red truck parked beside it. The blurred dots of livestock were scattered inside a fenced area to the left.

"They had just bought the farm and wanted to memorialize the moment."

Oswald chuckled, turning the photo to show her, tapping his finger on the girl's face. "You seemed quite the wild child."

Sam scoffed playfully. "That's my sister, Casey. And yeah, she was a pain growing up. But the reason I wanted to show you this was that…" An ache formed in her throat, a sort of ache that hadn't surfaced for years. A sort of ache she wished would hurry up and finally leave her. She cleared her throat, then tapped her mother on the photo. "My mom died when I was still a baby too." Her finger lingered on her mother's face, wishing the photo could suck her in to live in that moment on that perfect spring day. "She died giving birth to me."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Oswald's hand twitched forward, but his fingers curled into a loose fist, keeping his distance. "What's her name?"

"Luz." The name felt strange as she spoke it. She couldn't remember any other time in her life she had said it.

"She's beautiful, just like–" His words stopped immediately. He let the sentence linger thickly and Sam didn't push him.

"Yeah, she is." She slid the photo back, picking it up delicately and tucking it back in her wallet.

"And your father?"

Sam shook her head, stuffing her wallet back in her pocket. "There was an accident when I was nineteen." Speaking and thinking of her father's accident were two completely different things. She always thought of his blood seeping through the wounds in his head, his body mangled and flattened by the driver who had fallen asleep at the wheel. And how it had happened just at the end of their driveway as he walked to the mailbox. And how the driver only turned around and sped away, a father-sized dent in his hood. She could think about that day. But speaking about it made the words hurt and the tears come unwillingly.

Oswald's hand snuck across the table to touch her once again. His grip was anchoring and the thoughts dissipated for the time being.

"My sister's alive though," she laughed, wiping her eyes.

 _At least as far as I know._

"Where does she live?" His thumb soothed against the back of her hand. Sam couldn't pull away.

"She still lives at home. I haven't talk to her in a long time though."

Noah knew best. He knew that if she spent time with her long-distance sister that it would take away time from them. The relationship would suffer because of it. They wanted to get married and have kids one day, right? If she did that and tried to stay in touch with her family, it would be too stressful trying to balance everything evenly. Noah was the love of her life, how could she ever say no to him? But she did miss Casey. She hoped she was well, perhaps starting her own family. One day she'd meet them.

A tuna sandwich was placed in front of her, the lettuce and tomato glistening with moisture.

"You even toasted the bread! Gabe you're amazing." Sam grinned at him and he waved away her thanks, his smile growing with embarrassment.

"Thank you, Gabe." Oswald nodded to his bodyguard.

"Oh, but one more thing," Sam chimed. "You don't think it's too early to have a drink, do you?"

Gabe shrugged, his bottom lip pouting in thought. "Not in my book."


	8. Chapter 8 - The End of the Night

Chapter 8 - The End of the Night

* * *

Oswald took a sip of his fourth glass of red wine before holding his mouth closed to stop himself from spitting. His sides ached, his face absolutely sore from his laughter.

"So, there I am on stage," Sam began, her words slow and slurred, "none of the amps are working, the mic isn't working. Vince and Brax are trying to fix it. Tommy is talking on the phone, not paying attention to anything. And then there's me." She spat a jumble of syllables, her laughter nothing but high-pitched hysterics. "The manager is nowhere to be seen. We're stuck there!"

"So, what happened?" Oswald was sober enough to realize the story wasn't as funny as she made it seem, but inebriated enough that made her smile completely contagious. He couldn't deny the dimple in her cheek a good time.

She finished off her fourth apple ale that hour, slamming the empty bottle on the table next to the others. "You know, I can't remember." She giggled. "Something about hitting a fan in the face with a guitar? I can't remember if it was Tommy or Brax who did it. But we never played in that bar ever again. Banned for life!" Her body swung around in the booth, almost knocking over the bowl of pretzels they were sharing. She held up an empty bottle of ale toward the bar. "Hey, dude, give me another!" Her finger jabbed at the glass.

Oswald reached over and took the bottle from her. "I think you've had enough." Sam reached for the bottle but he kept it away from her.

"Os, come on," she whined. She tucked a pretzel between her lips, making it jerk up and down with her tongue. "You're no fun."

The club was quiet for a Wednesday night, a couple dozen patrons enjoying the pop band on stage. But Oswald and Sam sat by themselves in their booth, only a few people sitting at the bar were nearest them.

"I'm just trying to keep you safe." The words came out quickly and even Oswald hadn't realized what he said until moments later. His jaw tightened as blush encircled his nose.

"You do that a lot," she mumbled, finally chewing down on the pretzel. "You say stuff then get all embarrassed. Why?"

His voice cracked in his throat. What could he say that wouldn't ruin everything? He wasn't ready to tell her; he just couldn't.

"Tell me your secrets, Ossy," she muttered, leaning forward.

His eyes couldn't help but peek down the collar of her shirt, noticing the start of her cleavage. "Secrets? Secrets like what?" Secrets like how attractive he thought she was? Or what things his drunken mind was thinking about doing to her?

"A secret that you'd never want to tell me." She took another pretzel. "Something _juicy_."

He bit his lip, her words sending tingles throughout his body. His life was nothing more than one large secret and perhaps only a handful of them he was even considering telling her one day. But it was certainly not that day.

"You go first." He finished off his glass.

Her lips puckered in thought and it took all of him to not lean in and kiss her. They were so inviting, even in their current silly position.

"I've got two," she started, sweeping crumbs into a pile on the table. "But you have to pick which one. Pick either about the first time I was raped or when my uterus was cut out by an ex-boyfriend." When Oswald went pale, she waved her hand in front of his face to gain back his attention. "Earth to Os. Hello?"

"Those are _some_ secrets," he whispered. He took her hand tight in his grip and wouldn't dare let go.

"I said you have to pick," she mumbled. She didn't pull away from his touch.

Her own reaction to what she said was unbelievable. It had to have been the alcohol keeping her calm and casual. A hot anger built up in the pit of Oswald's stomach. He held her hand in both of his now, pulling it to his lips. He kissed her knuckles with vigor.

 _The_ first _time she was raped?_

He felt her pulse in her wrist through her sleeve, the thumping quickening when he kissed her hand again. His fingers began to pull her sleeve up, wanting to kiss more of her, but she slapped his hand away suddenly. She tucked her arms against her chest protectively.

"I'm sorry," he slurred, drunk on the taste of her skin. He wanted to keep her safe, kissing her to let her know he'd never leave. He could never leave her.

His sober side argued the feelings were overcoming him all too soon, after having known her for only a little over a week. His drunken side relished in the fact that the feelings existed at all, and that in some way she was reciprocating. The way her pulse sped at his touch made it all worth it. But if she wasn't safe, the way he felt would mean nothing. She was vulnerable now. The last thing he wanted was for Noah to get his hands on her.

"Let's leave." He stood abruptly, stepping awkwardly on his leg.

"To where?"

He held out his hand to her. She took it without hesitating and nothing could stop Oswald's smile.

"Somewhere where you'll always be safe."

* * *

The keys scratched at the lock, missing the keyhole once, twice. Oswald held his wrist steady and finally inserted the key, opening the door to his apartment. The front room was dark except for the dim light reflecting off the full moon. He flicked on the light and Sam stumbled in after him. The effects of her last drink had finally devoured her and she swayed as she stood.

"Where are we?" she slurred, having some difficulty taking off her jacket. She bumped into the couch that sat plump by the door, almost toppling over.

"I live here." Oswald locked the door, then took his own coat off and slung it over the kitchen counter across the room.

Sam laughed uproariously as she finally pulled over her jacket, throwing it at her feet.

"Can I get you anything?" he asked, dipping his head into the refrigerator. The shelves were packed with foods and drinks, Gabe having come by the other day after purchasing everything on Oswald's list. "We have wine, wine or wine." He picked up a bottle from the bottom shelf. He squinted, blinked and tried to focus long enough to read the label but his eyes refused.

He held the bottle out to show Sam but froze when he saw her sitting on the couch, _his_ couch. She was there with him, alone. There was no pesky boyfriend to interrupt, no scheduled meetings to go to. It was just him and her until morning. His mind went wild. Oh, the things they could do.

Sam reached out for the bottle, her fingers flexing like a child wanting its milk. He gave it to her. She squeezed the bottle between her knees and tried to pop the cork, her fingers slipping. Oswald retrieved a bottle opener from the kitchen. She giggled, taking the opener and yanking out the cork. She took a long swig.

He sat beside her, taking a drink once she was finished. The taste was dull against his tongue.

"Ossy, I have to tell you something." She sat up on her knees and slapped a hand on his thigh. "You probably get told this _all the time_." She hiccupped.

He tilted his head back and groaned exaggeratedly. " _I know_. I look like a penguin."

Sam stared at him, her mouth twisted in confusion. "What?" A moment later her eyes lit up and the giggling began again. "Holy crap, you do! You do!" She held her stomach, her head thrown back in a fit of hysterics.

Oswald took another large sip of wine. Her laughter hurt his pride, but only just.

"But really," Sam sobbed, tears streaming down her face. Her smile never faltered. "I have to tell you something." She leaned forward, stifling more laughter. She stared. "You have really pretty eyes. Like, _really_ pretty. Like, they're almost clear." He watched her eyes switch between his as she examined them. She held her breath, inching closer. Her eyes glanced down at his lips, just for a split second, and Oswald was on her almost immediately.

The kiss was sloppy, saliva and wine drenching their mouths. But it was happening. All the frustration built up in the last week was paying off at last. And she wasn't backing away from him like he assumed she would.

Her tongue snaked past his lips and he sucked on it gently. She moaned against his mouth, and he forced the kiss to quicken, deepen. They were breathless soon enough, the sound of her needy exhale only exciting him more. Her breasts pushed against his chest as she pulled his jacket from his shoulders.

How could this be happening to him? He had only dreamed of a beautiful girl loving him, accepting his physical shortcomings. And Sam was now that girl. It didn't feel real, it couldn't be.

She swung her leg over him and straddled him. Oswald's cheeks burned as he looked up at her. Grabbing his hand, she slapped it onto her breast, forcing him to squeeze. Taking the bottle from him, she finished the rest in only a few gulps. She then crashed her lips against his again, wine dripping down her chin.

No, they couldn't. Sense dug its way the surface of his brain, realizing they were both intoxicated, she much more than he. She wasn't in her right mind; she wasn't making coherent choices. It would explain why she wanted to kiss him at all. He was a killer, not a rapist. It was better for her to be upset with him now than regret everything in the morning.

But she felt so amazing on top of him. His fingers kneaded her breast and she whimpered pitifully when his thumb flicked across her nipple. She was unbuttoning his vest. It took all his strength to pull his lips away.

"Sam, we have to stop," he whispered. She kissed his lips as he spoke. "We're both very drunk and–" His breath hitched and his hands flung to her hips as she started grinding. Her leg rubbed against the tip of his growing erection. "I'm begging you to stop." He held tight her hips, forcing her to hold still.

"But you like it," she purred. She flung open his vest then began with the buttons of his shirt. "I know you like it."

"I do like it. I _love_ it. That's not the point." He took her hands in his, trembling. He couldn't believe what he was doing, whether it was right or not. She was mere minutes away from being his. But this wasn't how he wanted it to happen, despite the growing tightness of his pants. "I have no idea if you truly want me or if that's just the alcohol talking. I don't want any regrets from either of us, so, please."

"But I want to." She went to kiss him again, but he dodged her lips. "Ossy, come on."

"In the morning, if you feel the same way, I'll have absolutely no issues. But until then, we should–"

She jerked her hands away from his grip. In Oswald's moment of shock, she tugged her sweater over her head, untangling her hands from her sleeves with awkward grace. His eyes darted to her cleavage as she pressed his face to it, running her fingers through his hair.

He couldn't move there in the darkness between her breasts, his long nose smashed against her sternum. His pants were becoming incredibly uncomfortable. Why was she being so persistent? He managed to push her away, his hands tight on her shoulders, his fingers scraping against thick gauze. He paused. Her body shook, her lips curled back as she sobbed. Her hands flew to her face, and she leaned forward, bracing her head against his chest.

"I didn't want to do that," she managed to say, her shoulders heaving. "Don't look at me… please."

It took him a moment, but he felt the ripples of the skin on her arm.

His mouth slacked. "Oh, God."

He couldn't see how many scars there actually were and was too afraid to count. They coated almost every inch of her flesh, crisscrossing into each other. There were several older scars, dulled and shiny, lifted above the plain of her skin. But most were still pink, sunken in deeply.

"Please don't tell anyone," she mumbled into him. She clutched at his vest, her fingers shaking.

"A-are you doing this… to yourself?" He couldn't stop himself from touching them, tracing each line as they connected into another. After a moment, her head nodded against his chest, a fiercer wave of sobs following. His jaw tightened, his own tears threatening to spill. "Why?"

She only shrugged.

He wrapped his arm around her. Stretching out his other hand, he picked up her sweater with his fingertips. "Sam, sit up." Once she did, he lifted the sweater over her head and tugged it over her stomach, where he saw more pink scars near her bellybutton.

"I feel sick," she whimpered. Her face was red, swollen, and soaked with tears.

"So do I." Killing another human being was nothing to him anymore; people were things, pawns to do his bidding that could easily be thrown away. But the few he loved, her and his mother, were something else, something stabbed deep within his gut that became a part of him, a part that would surely die if anything happened to them.

His thumbs brushed over her cheeks, collecting her tears. Her eyes were bloodshot; her nose was runny. But she was still so beautiful to him, even after seeing what she was doing to her body. He couldn't begin to understand her reasoning behind her self-mutilation, but he wished to. He needed to make sense of it all.

Before Oswald could soothe her, just as his mouth was mere inches from hers to give her a comforting kiss, a wave of brown vomit punctured through her tight lips. The sour chunks splashed against his face, soaking immediately into his shirt and pants. The undigested food piled itself into his lap, the last of his erection hurriedly folding into itself. His hands froze in midair, the smell of it all forcing him to accept his fate.

Sam leaped from the couch, running to the bathroom where the second flood propelled into the toilet. Her groans and whimpers echoed against the porcelain.

Oswald could only sit there, afraid to move. It seemed inevitable that the carpet and couch would be stained. But it was the right kind of end to strange, heart wrenching night. Not only had he denied sex to a gorgeous woman, that same woman was exposed for cutting herself at an alarming rate. And he had no idea how to help her.

Pulling out the crotch of his pants to hold the vomit in place, he waddled to the bathroom and, slipping out of his shoes, stepped directly into the shower. He rinsed of his front, watching the pieces pile up at the drain.

"I'm sorry," Sam groaned into the toilet, spitting.

"It's alright." Though it definitely was not. He'd have no choice but to throw his shirt away and he had no idea if his vest could be salvaged. Don Falcone may have been paying him handsomely, but his wardrobe was still the most expensive thing he owned.

Sam heaved loudly and it took Oswald all he had to not gag. Blood and gore was nothing to him, but even just the sounds of vomiting got under his skin.

Wiping her face with toilet paper, she flushed and rush of scolding water pelted against Oswald's chest. He hissed and slapped the nozzle off. He hadn't succumbed to such abuse since Fish had returned to _his_ club during his lonely first grand opening. Though from the sickly stench wafting from the bottom of the tub, he'd prefer a baseball bat to his back any day.

Sam curled up against the toilet, her knees tucked to her chest.

Peeling away his vest and shirt, and sliding off his suspenders, Oswald hung them over the side of the tub to drain before rising any residue from his chest. He went to unzip his slacks but paused.

"Sam?" He peeked down at her but she lay there on her side, unmoving and silent except for the sound of her ragged breathing.

He pulled the curtain closed and shuffled out of his pants. He kept his boxer briefs on however, the vulnerability of the moment too uncomfortable for him already. He washed thoroughly, scrubbing mercilessly until he was satisfied the smell was gone.

Reaching for the towel hanging from the rack, the shower curtain tucked modestly around him, he dried as quickly as he could and wrapped the damp towel around him before exiting the shower. The cold air stole the air from his lungs.

 _Get a space heater._

Then he tiptoed past Sam, still aware of her breathing, and scurried to his room to put on a pair of flannel pajamas and wool socks. Drying is hair once more, the strands soft and free of product, he returned to the bathroom and hung the towel back on the rack.

Sam hadn't moved an inch. Oswald knelt down and shook her shoulder gently. She responded with a groan, her face contorted with pain.

"Are you still feeling ill?" he asked, brushing her hair away from her face.

"I'm tired."

"You can sleep somewhere more comfortable if you're feeling better. You can… sleep in my bed if you'd like."

 _But only if you're feeling better. The last thing I need right now is vomit on my pillow._

"I just need to sleep," she mumbled softly.

And with that, his hands were firm around her arm and back, steering her to her feet. She stumbled and swayed as she was walked to his bedroom, her eyes barely opening. With one light nudge, she collapsed on the bed, her face buried into the pillow. Adjusting her on her side and pulling the duvet to her waist, he tucked her in tight. He then shuffled over and placed a trash bin by the side of the bed. Every precaution was taken, despite the fact that keeping her out of his bed was the best option. But he couldn't have her sleeping on the bathroom floor all night.

"I'll be in the front room if you need me," he said, though her heavier breathing suggested she was already sleeping. Her cheek was pushed against the thick pillow, her dimple saying hello, and the anxious knot returned to his gut.

She was helpless, almost pathetically so. She was as dependent on him as a newborn, a self-abusive and reckless newborn. Helping others with their personal issues were often dealt with quite differently in his line of work. He couldn't exactly sic his cronies on a psychological problem. And he wasn't exactly the best a helping someone with their feelings. Offering to pay for some sort of therapy for her was always an option, but there was no guarantee it would work.

Oswald collapsed onto the couch, kicking away the empty bottle of wine and staying clear the drips of vomit drying at the edge of one of the cushions. He'd have to hire a cleaning crew in the morning before the smell soaked into the walls.

Leaning his head back and resting his feet on the coffee table, he folded his hands in his lap and forced himself to sleep.

* * *

 _Author's note: So sorry this took so long! Last weekend I finally had the opportunity to meet Robin Lord Taylor and it was so amazing! I've been gushing over the experience that I haven't been the the right mindset to write._

 _But I hope this chapter makes up for the delay. I had a lot of fun writing this one._


	9. Chapter 9 - The Next Morning

Chapter 9 - The Next Morning

* * *

How could she wake up two mornings in a row with a splitting headache? Sam cursed her stupidity as soon as she could comprehend the words. The day before was a blur…except arriving at the Lounge. Butch was there, Gabe was there, Oswald was–

Was she laying in a bed? She lifted her head from the pillow. Her cheek was sticky and thick with saliva; a puddle of it had soaked into the pillow, the white pillowcase stained sickly brown. One look at the moisture glistening in the morning sunlight forced her stomach to flip. Nausea carved itself into her head and she heaved. Her retching tore at her throat, exhausting the muscles in her abdomen that already seemed sore. Had she been vomiting all night? As her body prepared for expulsion, she scurried from the bed but tripped on something by the bedside, falling to her knees. A heaviness settled in her abdomen, just below her sternum, and her mouth began salivating endlessly. She saw that she had tripped on a trash bin and took full advantage. As soon at her head reached inside, her muscles contracted and dark yellow bile exploded from her mouth. Capillaries burst on her cheeks as she continued to heave, her body forcing out every last drop.

Gentle hands pulled her hair from her face as she hacked the last bit into the bin, her hands unsteady as she held it close. A cold chill ran up her spine and she groaned tiredly as she shivered. Once she felt she was finished, she wiped her mouth with a limp wrist and took a deep breath. It had been a long time since she vomited and she'd almost forgotten how horrible it was to do so.

From her sitting position, Sam could see plastic storage containers tucked underneath the bed. A few were shrouded with shadow and unreadable. One was filled to the brim with black clothing. Another one was filled with different colored socks, each one with a darkened hue. A smaller container was near the head of the bed, tucked away and filled with switchblades, knives and… a gun? Her nausea returned.

Cautiously, she turned to whoever was behind her. She expected a stranger, someone who had taken her for a one night stand at the club. But Oswald stood there, his brows furrowed with worry.

She stared up at him.

"What the hell is going on?" she asked, her voice cracked and dry. Her head pounded with every word she spoke.

"You had too much to drink." His voice was low, exhausted. Heavy, dark rings lay under his eyes. "You've been vomiting on and off all night."

Leaning against the bed, she stood on shaky legs. "What happened last night? Did we…?" Her head swam and she braced herself against the bedpost. How could she remember nothing? Getting drunk was nothing new to her. Sure, she'd have a hangover from time to time but she couldn't recall the last time she allowed herself to be so drunk she blacked out. It had been years, easily. "Did we do… something?"

Oswald hesitated and her hand flew to her mouth. Tears already started welling in her eyes. "Oswald. What happened?" She wasn't a cheater, she couldn't be.

His face was reddening. "We didn't have sex if that's what you're worried about."

"Then what did we do?" When he hesitated again, she pushed his shoulder. He stumbled and tapped the wall near the doorway. She advanced on him but he held her out at arm's length. The pressure of his palm against her shoulder only increased her throbbing headache.

"We kissed," he said, his face twisted with surprise. "We kissed and we touched. And you took your sweater off…"

Last night suddenly came rushing back. His hand on her breast, forcing his fingers to knead into her skin. She had been on top of him and she had liked it, feeling his erection against her leg. And feeling the cold air against her back after she threw her sweater away. She had been so exposed but only realized what she had done until it was too late.

Her stomach was knotted again. She was a cheater, plain and simple. She hadn't thought about anything other than being with her boss all night that she allowed herself to be as vulnerable as she could be.

"Samantha," Oswald whispered, adding gentle pressure to her shoulder. "We need to talk about… your scars."

"No, we don't," she snapped, pushing him again. "I never want to hear anything about it. Don't you dare try to judge me." Her voice rose until she was screaming, tears threatening to spill. As her voice amplified, so did her blurring vision. "How I deal with things in my life is no one's business but mine! Not you, Noah or anyone else needs to bother with it because I have it under control. I don't need help; I'll never need help. What I do to myself doesn't affect you so drop it, now!"

Her sudden emotional escalation frightened her. She was aware of her overreaction, but the feelings poured out of her without her command. Her scars, apart from her relationship with Noah, was the one thing that she refused to speak about to anyone.

"How does this not affect me?" Oswald asked. His voice was leveled, calm, which only irritated Sam more. "You're my employee and," he rolled his eyes, "I guess, friend. How you treat yourself does affect me."

She scoffed. "You _guess_ we're friends? That does wonders for my self-esteem, thanks."

His face reddened again. "I was hoping to call you something more meaningful but since you're reacting so negatively about last night, I can only assume we're just friends."

It took Sam a moment. "You were hoping that we could become something after a drunken fling? You know how many things are wrong with that scenario?" To his embarrassment, she held up three fingers. "One, _I have a boyfriend._ Two, we've known each other for, what, maybe a week? And three, we were both drunk! Which one of those points sounds like the making of a relationship?" She shoved away the fact that, despite being wasted last night, she did enjoy being so close to him. "Plus, you're acting like you care about my wellbeing? Just like you were acting like you weren't going to rape and kill me while I was sleeping?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She pointed to the area under the bed. Her heart was pounding, her temples pulsating. "I saw that box of weapons down there. You bring me to your house put me in your bed. How do I know you didn't already rape me?" Somewhere deep down she knew he hadn't. She knew what being raped felt like and even though her headache was making the room spin, she wasn't feeling the sore vulnerability she was used to. But she had to speak her mind, whether she thought about what she was saying beforehand or not. She was scared and confused. Her mind was racing, forcing her to blurt out nonsense.

"Now you're being ridiculous and paranoid. I'm not a rapist. And I _cannot_ believe I have to clarify that. You know my job is dangerous so I keep a few weapons around. I've already told you all this."

Sam tried to remember, trying to force the images and words to resurface but without creating the memory herself purposely, she couldn't.

"Do you really not remember anything from last night?" The concern in his voice was almost insulting.

"No, and despite my better judgement I'm trusting you to tell the truth." She immediately saw the hurt in his eyes change to annoyance and she wondered if what she was saying would ruin their relationship forever. She _was_ paranoid and she _was_ ridiculous.

"I told you that I'm an underboss for Don Carmine Falcone. You thought it was, well, as you put it, cool. And you said that you felt safer around me after having known."

Sam froze, her words jumbling over the mobster's name. "F-Falcone?" She knew little about the feud between Maroni and Falcone, but only that it was best to stay out of their way if you wanted to live. She laughed nervously, her hands shaking as they ran through her hair. "This is just… perfect. It's good to know I'm working for the mafia now. How could you not disclose that kind of information when you set up the auditions? That seems like something you should tell your employees."

Oswald crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall, getting comfortable. "No, the real question is how did you _not_ know? Did you think Butch and Gabe were just my friends? The Falcone family owns half of Gotham, including the Lounge, how do you not know?" He then gestured irritably at his knee. "How else did you think I sustained my injury, from skiing? Do I look like the type who goes skiing? Think about it, Samantha. Just because I work for an infamous family doesn't mean I'll kill everything I see."

"But does that mean that you have killed?" Her stomach churned with anticipation and she feared she'd start heaving again, even more so when he hesitated. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again with such intensity.

"It comes with the territory. At times its kill or be killed. I've had my brush with death more than once so, why wouldn't I take extra precautions to protect myself and those who are important to me?"

"I…" A nervous chill spread through her scalp. "I need to go." But she couldn't move. Was she suddenly so terrified of him? She vaguely recalled just hours beforehand she had been on top of him, essentially dominating him. Now, because of the knowledge of his work and the way he went about it, suddenly he was scary? "I just need to think."

Oswald sighed and gestured to the bedroom door. "At least let me give you a ride."

"No." She spoke faster than she could think. "The last thing I need right now is showing up on my doorstep with you. Noah would kill both of us."

"The fact that you say that only fuels my suspicions, if I'm to be honest."

"If your girlfriend showed up in the morning with a guy, wearing the same clothes she was wearing the day before, you wouldn't think something was up?"

Oswald hesitated for a moment. "Touché."

"I don't know what I'm going to say to him…" Her hands cupped over her face, the sudden realization of Noah's reaction coming to light. She was facing a few days of well-deserved punishment, she knew for certain, but what kind of punishment she could only imagine. Noah could be creative when he wanted to be.

"I will go with you if you need me to."

"What did I just say?" She groaned heavily. Her fingers began raking themselves down the side of her face.

"Then at least take this." Hobbling across the room, he moved the trash bin out of the way and tugged out the small plastic box containing the knives. Riffling through it, metal scraping against metal, he finally presented a switchblade. The blade was sheathed into the handle, the white ivory almost too clean to touch.

"For protection only," he said before taking her hand and placing the knife there. "Remember, if you use this to harm yourself, my fingerprints are on it."

"And if I use it to harm someone else?"

"That's no problem. I can handle that. Just…promise that if you need protection, you'll use it."

Sam tried to hand it back, shaking her head. "There's nothing I need protection from in my own home." Noah had said in his note that he was sorry and that could only mean that he wanted to change. She hoped, even after the fiasco that was currently unfurling, he'd still love her. He had to.

But at what point was she ready to end her denial, or at least think of the possibility that Noah was incapable of change? Hadn't he said he'd change dozens of other times? Kissing Oswald had been very different from kissing Noah. With Oswald, she had been in control and she felt comfortable with him, enough so that she had taken off her sweater without thinking. Yes, she had been drunk to the brim but it all felt so good.

Then, with Noah she was never in control. He was always telling her what to do and how to do it. His pleasure was first. She was lucky if he wanted foreplay at all. She couldn't remember the last time she had finished, or even come close to doing so. But he was happy, right? He said he'd change.

"Just take the damn thing," Oswald snapped, clearly agitated by her hesitance. "And you still have my number, correct?"

"Why are you acting like I'm going to war or something?" But wasn't she? She had no plan of attack to convince Noah she hadn't cheated on him, though she had. Lying to Noah was never her first option for any occasion so it was unavoidably her weakest trait.

"Do you have it _or not_? Stop making me ask the same questions more than once. I haven't the patience, Samantha."

She buckled under his tone. "I don't know what happened to it."

Oswald left his room before she finished speaking, huffing. "Follow me." Walking to the kitchen, he opened a drawer closest to the stove and pulled out a small yellow pad of paper. Taking the pen from the calendar magnetized to his refrigerator, he wrote his number again for her. She took it and folded it, stuffing it into her back pocket with Noah's note.

"Am I allowed to leave now or is there another precaution I need to take?" She hadn't meant for her sarcasm to be so thick, but the words spurted from her mouth before she could think.

Oswald slammed the drawer shut, tossing the pen on the counter. "Yes, fine, go. But I'm still expecting to see you on stage Saturday night, whether or not you think it'll be awkward." His eyes glanced down for a moment, then he tore a paper towel from the roll hanging near the sink, handing it to her. "You've got…" He gestured to his chest.

She took it and glanced down as well, seeing a line of drying vomit down her front. She swore, trying to soak it with the towel. "It'll only be awkward if you bring it up. This was a mistake and a one-time thing."

His face hardened as her rejection cut in deep. She wanted to apologize, and maybe wrap her arms around him. But she kept her distance, inching closer to the front door. The smell of stale vomit punctured her nose and she caught sight of the dried, brown puddles on the couch and floor.

"I can clean that up for you," she offered but Oswald immediately held up a dismissive hand.

"Someone will be by to clean it later. Just go."

"I'm sorry for the mess," she whispered, her hand hesitating on the doorknob. An anxious knot formed in her gut and she feared she'd vomit again. Opening the door slowly, she turned back to Oswald, unable to look at his glare. "I do want to clarify one thing though. You do have really pretty eyes."

* * *

Sam inhaled deeply to ease her nerves as she opened the door to her apartment, and didn't exhale until she spotted Noah sitting on the couch in silence. The yellow roses sat before him on the coffee table, their petals already beginning to wilt.

"Hi, baby," Sam said, keeping her voice chipper despite the growing fear in the surrounding silence. The rhythmic clicking of the clock on the wall above the couch was the only sound echoing in the room. But then he spoke and her fear bloomed horrifically.

"I'm going to let you explain yourself before I say anything." His booming voice pierced the silence and Sam flinched involuntarily. He wore his pajamas, as holey as hers ever was, and she wondered if he had slept at all.

Only a crackled of syllables sounded as she opened her mouth to speak. How much could she say before he was furious? It couldn't be much from the way his hands were flexing.

"There's not much to tell," she whispered, her hands wriggling nervously. "I went to a club yesterday and had such a good time that I drank too much. So, I crashed at a friend's house nearby."

"Instead of coming home?"

"I wasn't sober enough to really think. I know we had plans." Her breath caught in her throat but she held back her tears with all her strength. "I'm so, so, _so_ sorry."

"And who was the friend?"

He was suspicious of Oswald already, she knew. He was waiting for the name to bounce off her tongue to make his move. Would he hit her, force her to her beg for forgiveness on her knees? She'd cry and he'd do his best to not kill her without a doubt.

When Sam hesitated, Noah stood from the couch to face her. His jaw was set, his hands balled into fists so tight the tendons threatened to burst.

"Did you cheat on me with _him_?" His voice shook as he spoke. Tears welled in his eyes. "Sammy, did you?"

Sam cupped her hands over her mouth and she no longer could hold back her own tears. In the three years they had been together, she couldn't remember the last time she had seen him cry, if ever. It was something that just didn't happen and now that it was, she couldn't turn away.

"Sammy, please, tell me. I deserve to know." The dams in his eyes gave way and streams flowed down his cheeks, but he wiped them away quickly. He was trying to stay tough, to be the hardened man he made himself to be.

"I didn't mean to," she sobbed. "I was drunk. We were both drunk. We didn't have sex, I promise. I promise you, Noah." She reached out to him but he slunk away immediately. "Noah, baby, please. I love you, you know that. It was all an accident." She reached again, her fingers only grazing against his chest. Her breaths were quickening, growing frantic. How could her world be crumbling before her eyes? Why did she let this happen?

"It can't all be an accident. You went there to be with him, even after you supposedly read my note." The volume of his voice was rising, but, to Sam's surprise, it wasn't from anger. His face was reddening as he allowed the tears to flow freely. His nose was running.

"I did read it, see?" She pulled the card from her back pocket, and Oswald's note was caught in the middle. The intricate handwriting stared at Noah and the color drained from Sam's face. Any hope of forgiveness had certainly gone out the window now.

"Another one?" He snatched the yellow paper from her hand and waved it in the air. "I threw the other one out, but I never would've guessed you'd ask for another one." Swiftly, he tore it apart and watched it fall to the carpet.

"But Oswald–"

He darted at her and wrapped his hand around her neck possessively, without harm. She shrieked at the sudden advance, and curled her fingers around his hand. Her eyes were closed tightly. She didn't make a sound, she didn't dare. His breath was hot against her ear, but his voice trembled horribly.

"Are you really that unhappy with me?"

He directed her against the wall of the hallway and the déjà vu forced her stomach to flip. What could she say? The truth could kill her. Then again, she wasn't entirely sure what the truth was. She loved Noah to bits but the things he did or didn't do were starting to take its toll on her. She wanted to go on, she so desperately did. But whether or not she could…

"Sammy, answer me. I…I promise I won't be mad. Just tell me the truth." When words escaped her, drowning in her weeping, he drew their faces closer together. "Is he a better kisser, a better lover? I can be better." He kissed her with tear-stained lips, gently but urgently. She crumbled under his kisses, her body shaking. Soft lips caressed away her tears. The grip around her neck loosened and he was soon holding her, kissing along her jaw and down her neck.

"You know I love you," he whispered in between kisses. "You know I love you so, so much. I can be better. Please, don't leave me."

He broke the embrace and cupped his hands around her face, forcing her to look at him. His gaze was warm and inviting and a strange sense of safety overwhelmed Sam for the first time in a long time. And when he leaned in and slowly kissed her mouth, she didn't feel the need to cry anymore. His hands were in her hair, his chest pressed against her but not so forcefully that she feared him. He was slow, engaging. His fingers traced against the pulsing veins of her throat, teasing the delicate hairs at the nape of her neck. He was so gentle and it felt so foreign, but so amazing.

"I'll be better," he breathed, giving her one last peck on the lips. "I can be better. Please, give me another chance. I'll make sure to never give you an excuse to cheat again."

He suddenly crouched down to one knee and took her hand. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Neither of them spoke; neither of them could. From his pocket, he held out a small, black box. He opened it and a ring shone up at her. The single diamond was pear-shaped; the band was rose gold. It was simple, nothing flashy; even the diamond wasn't very big. But she wasn't a flashy girl.

"I was going to do this last night but…" Noah trailed off but shrugged. "This is the best proof of my love that I can give you. I know it's not much but I hope it's enough for you." He took the ring from the box and held it up. "Samantha O'Shea, I've loved you since the moment I met you. Three years is a long time to be with someone… and I know that this question is long overdue, but–" His voice broke.

Sam reached down and brushed away his tears dipping over the edge, but didn't dare touch her own tears for they were produced from the happiness spreading deep within her.

With trembling hands, he slipped the ring on her finger. It slid on easily, the circumference of it too large for her finger. "Samantha Luz O'Shea, will you marry me? I promise, I swear I'll be the man you need me to be. Just please, give me one more chance."

Her answer was a kiss, just as slow as his had been. She couldn't speak as if her brain erased all information pertaining to language. She relished in the silence, only their soft kissing echoing in her ears. The morning hadn't been ideal after waking up in her boss's apartment and vomiting in a trash bin.

She broke the kiss then, her face reddening. "Wait, I need to clean up before," his hungry exhales almost lured her back, "before anything happens. I feel gross."

"You feel perfect to me." His teeth teased her bottom lip and she melted against him.

"I need to shower." She giggled as his eyebrow twitched, his lips twisting in a sly smile.

He was undressing her before the bathroom door was closed, kissing down her neck once her sweater was gone. Sam lay the ring on the counter, afraid it would slip down the drain without notice. Noah kissed the goose flesh along her collarbone and flicked on the space heater on the counter. He was generous in his touches, rubbing sensitive areas with his fingers and tongue. He didn't allow her to touch him in return, however.

"Let me make you feel good," he whispered from between her breasts once her last piece of clothing was gone. "Let me appreciate you like I should've been this whole time."

He paid no matter to her scars or her gauze-covered skin and it made her feel so amazingly strange. She felt her flaws were what made her, but he was slowly finding other pieces that defined her. He was hungry for her pleasure, quickening his paces when her heavy breaths turned to prolonged moans. She was exhausted soon enough once they entered the shower, his heaving body pressing her to the wall. The warm water pelted down on them as they writhed, his arms tight around her to keep her as close as possible. They went on as long as they could, but the weight of the moment, of the next step in their lives, was too great. Wrapping his hand around her neck, their bodies convulsed into gasps and groans until neither of them could catch their breaths.


	10. Chapter 10 - The Tootsie Pop

Chapter 10 - The Tootsie Pop

* * *

"Can we keep this professional, please, Harvey?" Jim grunted as his seatbelt yanked him in place, the police cruiser coming to a jolting holt in the parking lot belonging to the unmarked building. "We're here for the case and _only_ that."

Harvey had barely turned the car off before he was crawling out. Jim quickly got out to keep up.

The brothel was tucked away on the south side of Gotham, where drug deals and shootings happened during the day and no one batted an eye. The parking lot was almost full that Thursday afternoon to Jim's dismay. Although Lee knew full well he was there on official police business, and she had been more than alright with it, just the thought of stepping inside the building made him feel unfaithful. He tucked his hands in his pockets, determined not to touch anyone or anything.

"Jim, I get it,' Harvey started, licking his fingers and smoothing his eyebrows. His pace quickened as they approached the front door. "You haven't had much experience being a single guy in the big city. See, any normal, single guy living in Gotham would jump at the chance to be surrounded by beautiful women, especially ones that practically throw themselves at you."

"Because they want your money but you're not exactly a millionaire."

"What they don't know won't hurt them." Harvey opened the heavy door for Jim, who entered hesitantly.

The place was cleaner than Jim had expected. Pop music played softly from the speakers mounted to the corners of the room. Leather couches lined the walls of the small lobby, the coffee tables covered with gossip and fashion magazines. Pink neon lights decorated the top and bottom linings of the walls, creating a color so bright the room darkened as Jim's eyes tried to compensate. The burning lights also helped warm the room but Jim didn't remove his coat. Paintings of half-naked, or completely naked, women in suggestive positions covered the walls. A wall of beads divided the threshold to the next room.

Harvey immediately walked to the light-haired woman behind the desk at the farthest end of the lobby. She sat casually in her chair, bare feet propped up on the desk, and reading a romance novel. Her toes were painted but, with the bright neon lights, everything was just different shades of pink. The buttons of her blouse were undone halfway down, showing off her prominent cleavage.

When the woman saw Harvey eagerly approach, she folded the page of her book and stood, puffing out her chest. She smiled and smacked her gum once. Jim soon stood beside his partner, keeping his embarrassment as under control as he could.

"Welcome, gentlemen," she purred, looking them both up and down. "Are you two looking for some fun today? Do you have an appointment?"

"Is it too late to make one?" Harvey leaned forward, a sly grin on his face. He tipped his hat up and winked at her.

"It depends on what kind of girl, or guy, you're looking for." From the corner of the desk, she slid over a thick binder. Finding the tab she wanted, she opened it and pulled out a sheet of forty or so names. With each name came a brief physical description and list of suggestive interests. "Whatever you're in to, we have it here."

Rolling his eyes, Jim flashed his badge at the woman and she blushed, snatching the paper back. Harvey groaned and glared at Jim, who only shrugged apologetically.

 _Come back on your own time._

"I'm Detective Jim Gordon," he said, putting his badge away. "This is Detective Harvey Bullock. If it's alright, we'd like to ask you a few questions pertaining to a recent homicide."

Holding up a finger, she picked up the phone receiver near where the binder had been and dialed. After a few moments of silence, she whispered, "I think you need to come to the front. There are two cops here… No…Yes. I'm assuming. OK." She placed the receiver back and planted on a sour smile. "Just one moment. My manager is on her way." And with that she sat back down and continued her book.

A moment later an older woman parted the beads, her graying hair draped over her shoulders. She wore a simple white dress, the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her dark lips pressed in a frustrated, thin line. Her hand was placed firmly on her hip, a bracelet dangling from her wrist.

"This way, please, officers." She held her hand out into the darkness of the next room, holding the beads in place.

Jim and Harvey followed her down the hallway, the light dimmed coolly in such contrast to the pink lobby. At the end of the hall, it divided two ways and she gestured them to the left where the cool lights continued. To the right, Jim saw briefly, the lighting warmed and illuminated a series of closed doors, 'Do Not Disturb' signs on almost every doorknob.

The woman opened the last door on the right and allowed the detectives to enter first. The room was lit by only a lamp on the dark wooden desk in the center of the room. Various plants sat on top of the cabinets near the desk, their vines dangling down. There were no photos in the room, on the walls, except for a small frame on the desk near the phone, which she promptly turned down before sitting in the tall leather chair on the opposite side of the desk. Jim and Harvey sat on the folded chairs on the other side, the hard surface already uncomfortable.

"So, what's this about?" she said abruptly, leaning her elbows on the desk. Her voice was graveled; she must smoke often.

"I'm sorry, your name is…?" Harvey began, the same kind of hunger he had for the receptionist was still in his eyes.

The woman glared at Harvey, but he didn't seem to notice. "Evelyn."

Jim waited for a last name, but it never came. Getting down to business, introducing themselves once more, Jim reached into the inside pocket of his coat and retrieved two photos from inside. He slid one of them across the desk to her. The photo was blown out from the flash, but the pink business card was legible, the black silhouette of a woman holding a lollipop printed in the corner, the words swooping across the card.

 _The Tootsie Pop_

 _How many licks to get to the center?_

"Does this card look familiar to you?" Jim asked.

"Of course it does." She didn't touch the photo. "It's one of our older business cards, by a few years at least. Which girl did you find it on? They're not allowed to take them, only give them away."

"We were hoping you could tell us." He slid the second photo over, the relaxed face of the latest victim pale against the metal table beneath her. The dried gashes on her shoulders and the deep purple spots on her neck were visible.

Recognition immediately flashed over Evelyn's face. Her fingers touched her lips lightly in surprise as she picked up the photo.

"No, no, come _on_." She groaned and flicked the photo back down. Her hand covered her eyes and she sighed, leaning on her elbow. "What happened to her?"

"It seems she was strangled," Harvey finally chimed in, Evelyn's spell wearing off. "Who is she?"

Uncovering her pained face, Evelyn leaned over and opened with bottom drawer of her desk, riffling through the manila folders stored there. She pulled the one she wanted and set it on the desk, pushing it toward the detectives.

"Ruby Ventura," Jim read, scanning over the information. His eyes avoided the photos inside, eventually flipping them over all together. It seemed so wrong looking at her in those positions as her body lay cold in the morgue downtown. "She was only twenty-one."

"You wouldn't happen to keep a list of her Johns, would you?" Harvey asked, flipping over the papers in the folder looking for the list.

"Yes, but who knows how reliable it is." She rubbed her temple. "It's not like we do background checks. If someone doesn't want to be known, they make up a name. As long as the cash is real, we don't necessarily care."

"Can we have a copy anyway?" Jim forced a smile. "Every bit helps."

From the opposite bottom drawer, she pulled a worn, green notebook with Ruby's name on the front.

"You can keep all of it," she sighed. "I obviously won't be needing it anymore."

"Do you remember the last time you saw Ruby?"

"I don't leave my office much. Maybe a few weeks ago? It's not like I take role call every day."

"Do you know if she had any relatives or significant others?" Jim scanned the page of emergency contacts. Only two names were listed: her mother and a boyfriend by the name of Juan Martinez.

"Only what's listed there. We weren't exactly friends."

"Alright, then would your employees be willing to speak with us? Maybe they would have more information?" Harvey asked, clearly excited to have the chance to be around the ladies, ready to catch them as they threw themselves at him. Jim rolled his eyes again.

"No offense," Evelyn scoffed, leaning back in her chair. She crossed her legs, Harvey's eyes catching a glimpse of her smooth skin. "It's my job to protect my employees and you know our line of work is only legal for those who can afford it. I can't allow you to speak with them without a warrant."

"Why shut down now when two seconds ago you were willing to give us this?" Jim held up the manila folder.

"Like I said, my employees need protection. But, believe me when I say that, just because I don't want you speaking with them doesn't mean I don't want to kill the son of a bitch who hurt Ruby. So, I handed over the information I have on file without a fight. And, boys, who knows? Maybe if you come back another day, I'll have something new to tell you."

"We'll be seeing you," Harvey said, putting on his best smile. He stood and gently shook her hand across the desk. "If you have anything new to tell us, or, you know, would just like to chat, here are our numbers at the precinct." From the inside pocket of his coat, he handed her a business card. Evelyn took it without reading it.

Jim also shook her hand before collecting the folder and notebook in the crook of his arm. With a hearty push, he directed Harvey out the door.

"What's the rush?" Harvey argued, firmly planting his feet just outside the office.

"I'm trying to get you back to your senses," Jim growled, shoving the papers into his partner's chest. "If you want to come back on your own time, that's up to you. But we've got a potential seral killer out there that won't stop on his own."

It was Harvey's turn to roll his eyes. "I was just being friendly, you know, good cop/bad cop." Shaking his head, he sauntered down the hall, Jim close behind.

Just as they came across the division of the hallways, Harvey turning right into the darkness toward the exit, Jim froze. On the other side of the hall, where the rows and rows of locked doors were, a short woman with dyed blue hair and monstrous high heels led a man with an obvious limp down the hall by the hand. She was whispering to him, stopping at a room toward the end. Jim couldn't see the man's face but he recognized the jet black hair that pointed in every direction and the way his right foot turned outward. But there was absolutely no way it could be–

The woman noticed Jim standing there and he bolted toward the beaded threshold after Harvey, fearful of the embarrassing confrontation.


	11. Chapter 11 - Just a Quickie

Chapter 11 - Just a Quickie

* * *

Oswald spun around, following the girl's gaze flick down the hallway. But there was no one there.

"Sorry," she said, unlocking the door. "I thought that guy was staring at us." She opened the door and gestured Oswald to enter. She then promptly locked the door behind them, setting the keys on the tall, white dresser next to the door. She unlatched the top button of her white blouse and ran her hands down her tiny, plaid skirt.

The room was simple and clean, windowless, and not a stain on the beige shag carpet. The most prominent item in the room was the king-sized bed; A violet duvet was spread across it with pillowcases to match. A white wardrobe sat fatly next to it, assumingly filled with various items for various kinks. But Oswald could only imagine the gallons of bodily fluids that had been spilled in the room and, to his disgust, he didn't mean blood.

"Can I take your coat?" the girl asked, sliding her hands smoothly across Oswald's chest, beginning to slip off the garment. But Oswald shrugged it back on.

"No, thank you. I'd rather keep it on." There was no stopping the blush creeping across his nose. He cleared his throat.

The girl shrugged. "Whatever makes your most comfortable. Plenty of guys like to keep their clothes on. There's no shame in it. But if you don't mind," she purred, and began unlatching several more buttons on her blouse, a pale pink bra peeking under the fabric, light tan lines lining the shape of her breasts, "I'd like to get more comfortable."

Oswald raised his hand sternly, a frown creeping over his mouth. "Madame, please. This is not the reason for my visit."

The girl sighed, slapping her hands down at her sides in frustration before propping them on her hips. "You just want a quickie, is that it? I mean, you paid for the hour, you might as well take advantage of every minute."

"Your… 'establishment' only offers time by the hour. Trust me, I won't be needing the whole time."

She sucked back a giggle. "If you think so. I'm not here to judge." She scampered back to the bed, laying down on her side. "Shall we begin?"

"No, no, I'm not here to…"

 _Make love? Have sex?_ _Fuck?_ None of the words felt right for the current situation.

He rolled his eyes. "First, tell me your name, please."

"I can be whoever you want me to be, honey." Her hand caressed her thigh, hiking her skirt up to reveal thin panties, making Oswald severely uncomfortable. He was becoming hot and bothered, but for the absolute wrong reason. He was irritated in every sense of the word.

"Just tell me _your name._ " His voice growled and a hint of fear spread across the girl's face.

"Look, I'm not that in to rough stuff–"

"I'm here to offer you a proposition," he said quickly, wishing the confusion would immediately end. "I sincerely hope you will accept my offer." From the inside pocket of his coat, Oswald unfolded a large photo and handed it to her.

She examined the photo, smoothing out the creases. "He's cute, who is he?"

Her sudden curiosity surprised him. He'd thought she'd be at least a little resistant. He could only imagine how often she was asked to do odd jobs by other Johns, and he cringed again, his mind going to places he never wanted it to go.

"His name is Noah White and I'm glad you find him attractive because, frankly, I need you to be the reason his current relationship ends." Thinking the words and saying the words felt completely different. His plan was now out there for the world, digesting in a mind other than his own. And it felt wonderful. "I need you to seduce him."

She laughed, pressing the photo to her chest. "Really? What did he ever do to you?"

"That's none of your concern." The less she knew of the situation the better. There was no reason for her to learn the name Samantha or even lay eyes on her. "I just need you to… do what you do and make sure to leave obvious evidence of it. Leave a hickey, spray your perfume on him, give him herpes. I don't necessarily care what you do as long as it's noticeable."

"I'm clean," she scoffed.

"You'll be paid handsomely, I assure you. Even more so if it's done quickly."

"And what exactly do you mean by handsomely, handsome?" She folded the photo, her polished nails teasing one of the corners.

Oswald thought for a moment, running through the numbers one more time. To keep Falcone in the dark about his shenanigans, paying the girl with his own money was the only option. But he was only paid every other week. And there was the rent payment with water, electrical and gas. Then money for food and clothing. Then keeping Gabe on payroll. And saving money for Mother, since she no longer worked, and a new apartment he'd had his eyes on for a while.

But how important was Sam to him? She was clearly priceless but how badly did he want her?

"If you're able to accomplish your objective within three days, the payment will be two thousand dollars. Any time after that will be five hundred. If it's over a week, it will be one hundred dollars."

Her eyes widened for a moment. "That's a pretty big price gap."

"I believe they call it motivation. Like I said, I need it done quickly."

"Where can I find this Noah?" She unfolded the photo again, seemingly unable to keep her eyes off the blurry photo from the surveillance tape in the Lounge of Oswald, with a handful of cash, and Noah, glaring at each other across the table.

"His address is written on the back. You can follow him from there. I can only assume he frequents the bars in the area." He regretted not tailing the bastard for a few days beforehand, knowing where he came and went, but time was not on Oswald's side. Plus, he only came up with the idea that morning. "Once it's done, visit the Iceberg Lounge and, if you succeed, if they end their relationship, you'll be paid."

"So, it's not enough to just sleep with the guy? What if his partner forgives him?" She folded then unfolded the photo again and began gnawing on her pinkie nail in thought.

"Then that would be considered a failure, now wouldn't it? You will not be paid until their relationship is over, no matter how many times it takes." Sam would have her heart broken but it would be for the best. Whether she admitted it or not, Oswald knew their relationship was not healthy. Though he couldn't deny being in a relationship with him, as he was going through his motions to become King of Gotham, was any heathier. But as long as she was safe…

"If you want to hire me long term, you'll have to talk to my boss." She tried handing the photo back to him but he refused.

"Are you that doubtful of the quality of your performance? If so, maybe I should find a different woman to help me." He turned, holding his hand on the doorknob and waited.

She jumped from the bed, holding her hands up. "Whoa, alright. There's no need to be insulting."

"Yes or no, will you agree to do this?"

"Yes, yes, I'll do it." She rolled her eyes at the intensity filling the room.

"Then, let me ask you again. What is your name?"

"Tawny Jones." She shook his outstretched hand. "And you?"

"Just call me Penguin."

Tawny shrugged. "Alright, Penguin. Did you come here to only talk or were we still going to have a bit of fun?" She stood, fingers playing with the hem of her blouse almost nervously. She gazed at him with lowered lids and glistening lips. She took a step closer and Oswald's hand slipped from the doorknob.

"No, no, I'll be going now." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat. With a purposeful grip, he opened the door. "I expect to see you within three days, Miss Jones."

Oswald wasted no time exiting the building, not without becoming partially blind in the lobby. He yanked open the passenger side of the car just inside the parking lot and Gabe jumped in the driver's seat, a newspaper propped up on the steering wheel.

"Let's get out of here," Oswald instructed, turning toward the window to hide his red face. "Not a word of this to anyone, Gabriel, correct?"

Gabe started the car and pulled out of the spot. "Of course. My lips are sealed, Boss. Did the girl bite?"

Oswald hoped he was talking about the deal. "Yes, she agreed. She has three days to complete the task and then we go from there." He propped his elbow up against the window, his chin cradled against the back his hand, watching the buildings and cars blur by. Telling Gabe hadn't been ideal, but it was much better than have him think he was frequenting brothels for the fun of it. There would be nothing more embarrassing than Gabe waiting in the car for him to finish, then probably judging him for the amount of time he spent inside.

"Boss, why not just whack the guy instead of going through all this trouble?" The car stopped at a red light and Gabe glanced over with small, curious eyes. "I get she's important to you so why not get it done and over with?"

For once, Oswald's mind was blank of snide comments. He could brush off Gabe's stupidity, his blindness for the situation at hand, but he couldn't help but ask himself the same question.

"Because…"

He could see Sam's face earlier that morning, the frightful look in her eye as she learned the truth about his line of work. She thought he would kill her, rape her, just because he worked for Falcone. He never wanted it to be that way. She should feel safe with him, feel that he would protect her from anything. And he would, without any shred of doubt. He was attached to her without any solid reason why. Perhaps it had been because she paid him attention, and she didn't look down on him with repulsion. She had hugged him. She had kissed him. She had vomited on him. Despite the disgusting scene, it was a closeness he hadn't experienced with anyone else before. Never had he had a girl lie ill on his bathroom floor or sleep in his bed. She was the shiny new toy he desperately wanted and needed.

"Because if he's taken or killed, and she finds out I was the one who ordered it, she'd quit the Lounge, maybe even leave town. But if the bastard cheats on her, I'm hoping it will be the final straw. She'll leave him with only a broken heart as evidence of their time together."

The light turned green and the car began accelerating.

"And if she doesn't?"

Oswald crossed his arms across his chest. "Then I am confident that she will never change her mind. Drastic measures may need to be taken if her safety is in jeopardy."

 _And I'll be alone again. So be it._

* * *

 _Author's Note: Thank you so much for all who have been keeping up with my little story! It means so much to me, you guys have no idea!  
_

 _I love reading your comments too so if you like, or didn't like, what you read, let me know! I love critiques!_


	12. Chapter 12 - Bagels and Coffee

Chapter 12 - Bagels and Coffee

* * *

Sam woke late that Saturday afternoon, stifling a laugh as Noah's fingers twitched against her neck as he dreamed. He was an active sleeper, often talking in or acting out his dreams. He mumbled nonsense against the back of her head, his breathing tickling her ear.

Ever so slowly, moving inch by inch, she moved his hand to his side. He stirred and she froze before he turned to his other side, subconsciously pulling the sheets over his naked body. He was snoring within seconds, his relaxed mouth drooling on his pillow. She kissed his shoulder before pulling herself out of bed, her back popping as she stretched. Her eyes avoided the mirror on the closet door as she pulled on one of Noah's graphic t-shirts, the hem dangling down the middle of her thigh, the fabric cool against her bare skin.

She went along with her morning routine, keeping the lights off in the bathroom to enjoy the cool afternoon sunlight pouring in. The apartment was freezing, as it always was, but it felt nice against her warm, exhausted body, as did the shower as the water pelted against her back.

The last few days had been the best days of her life, at least in current memory. The two hadn't left the apartment once, with Noah calling in sick for work. They ate, slept, made love and everything in between. The bed was the most visited area, sometimes spending hours never leaving the comfort of the mattress. He touched her in ways he never had before, gently and concentrated. His fingers would caress her face; his palms massaged her shoulders. No bruise was left in the aftermath and no blood was spilled. The razors hadn't been touched and, for a few brief moments, she had forgotten about her deformed skin. The feelings of relaxation and bliss felt so foreign. It made her heart thump faster at just the thought of the rest of her life being so wonderful.

With a quick glance in the bathroom mirror, she noticed the bruises on her neck had faded into a pale yellow finally. The bites on her shoulders had scabbed over nicely as well, leaving no more need for gauze. She twisted the excess water from her hair, the droplets falling into the sink.

Noah had said he would change and he proved to her he could. The days of cowering under him were over, gone forever. He was the man he was when they had first met. The last few years had only been a minor setback. She knew that if she was patient enough it would all be worth it. But they were ready to move forward with their lives, finally leap to the next step. Marriage, a new home, a family, growing old together and eventually dying of natural causes in each other's arms. It was a fantasy she hoped would now become reality.

Feeling rather cheerful that morning, she decided to surprise Noah with a nice breakfast to show her appreciation. But with the refrigerator mostly bare since they hadn't left the apartment, a brisk walk to the bagel shop down the block would have to do. Tiptoeing into their bedroom, she rummaged through the several pants he'd left on the floor, checking the pockets for extra cash. With luck, she managed to find a few dollars.

She dressed quietly, pulling on baggy sweatpants, not exactly matching Noah's shirt. Her uncontained breasts were secured under her leather jacket, and she was confident no one could tell the difference. With her boots left untied and her wool hat pulled over her wet hair, she grabbed her keys and left the apartment, an obvious skip in her step.

The money had been enough for several bagels, cream cheese and two drinks. Noah liked his coffee with just a dash of cream, no sugar. However, coffee wasn't Sam's favorite so she settled with a banana and strawberry smoothie.

As soon as she reentered the apartment, she kicked off her boots at the door. Setting the bag and tray down on the coffee table, she slunk back to the bedroom, tossing her jacket over the back the couch on her way. Noah was sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes vigorously. He grunted and sniffled, running his fingers through his hair.

Sam leaned down and, waiting for the moment he looked up, kissed him gently. He moaned softly with approval.

"Morning," he whispered, the crook of his finger cradling her chin. He then kissed her again with a breathy sigh and she happily smiled against his mouth. "I can't remember when we fell asleep. For a moment there I was positive we wouldn't get any."

"We almost didn't if you hadn't exhausted me." Her pulse raced just at the thought of their activities the night before. Her skin still tingled in the most delicate places where he had touched the most. "But it's time to get out of bed, lazy bones."

Noah tugged her, almost pulling her back into bed but she refused with a laugh. "Come on, breakfast is waiting."

He perked up. "Oh? How long have you been awake?"

"Just about an hour. Come on, your coffee is getting cold." Taking his hand, she yanked him from the sheets, blushing at his naked body. She'd seen Noah naked countless other times, but he had a new softness to him. It was a gentle presence she hadn't experienced with him in a long, long while.

Though to stay at least a little modest, he slipped on a pair of green boxer briefs.

"Have I ever told you I love you in my shirts?" He purred the words, reaching around her and giving her backside a squeeze. She squirmed against him and he squeezed again. "Especially without a bra." His lips caressed up and down the side of her neck. She could feel a growing firmness against her thigh.

"Noah, baby, let's go." Her voice shuddered as his teeth nibbled her skin, sending furious shivers up her spine. "Let's go eat." A whimper escaped her throat as his fingers kneaded her breasts, teasing and tugging until she gasped. He wasn't listening, even after her stomach grumbled angrily, even after she started pushing him away, fingers tight against his bulging biceps.

"Don't you want this?" He breathed against her neck, pressing himself against her.

"I bought us breakfast. Your coffee is getting cold."

He froze, tilting his head away. "You _bought_ breakfast?"

With light, cautious movements, she slipped from his grasp, gesturing him to follow her down the hall. She handed his coffee to him quickly, relieved it was still warm. He read the label on the cup and the bag. He took a sip, then another.

"Where'd you get the money?" He opened the bag and glanced inside, taking a plain bagel.

"I found some in one of your jeans. I hope that's alright." She took a long drag from her smoothie, the stinging cold countering the temperature rising in her face. She winced at the strange aftertaste.

"Is there a receipt?" He tore off a chunk of bagel with glistening teeth. His happiness was faltering.

Digging through the bag, she found the receipt. He snatched it from her hand and read it. She watched his eyes scan the paper several times before he took another sip of his coffee.

"Should I assume you didn't take the thirty-two cents in change?" he asked, pointing to the amount due at the bottom of the receipt.

"I-I didn't think really think about it. Coins always get lost anyway," she chuckled.

But Noah didn't laugh or smile. He only grunted, crumpling the paper. He chomped down on the bagel again, much more viciously than the last, and his eyes didn't leave her. He stared at her, his brows lowering slowly.

"Is the coffee good? I know the place went under new management recently." She took another sip of her smoothie, the aftertaste not much better. "I think the fruit there went bad days ago, though."

"Coffee's fine." He tilted his head back as he drank every last drop. "Bagel's fine. It's all fine." He threw his empty cup into the bag along with his half eaten bagel.

"Good," she whispered. "Good."

His softness was dissipating at an alarming rate. His jaw set, his shoulders squared. She couldn't hold his prolonged stare as they stood still together, an angry heat radiating from him. Her eyes met the wilting yellow roses seen on the kitchen counter, the apology card sitting beside it, and wished to go back to the time where he felt like writing her notes again.

"Let's get back to bed." His hand opened for her, wishing for her to take it. His stare didn't falter.

"I don't want to spend all day lazing around." She set her smoothie down; the fruit in it had definitely gone by several, _several_ days. "Besides, I still have to do the show tonight. I need to start getting ready for that so I have time to rehearse with the boys beforehand."

His hand dropped. A smile crept across his lips.

"Where's your ring?" he asked.

She lifted her hand to show him but realized it wasn't there. "Oh, I left it on the nightstand last night so I wouldn't lose it. It's a little big and slips off easily."

"So, you were going to go hangout with your _boys_ without your ring?"

His accusation startled her, seemingly unlike him compared to how he was since the proposal.

"I'm not used to wearing a ring. I'm sorry." With a bowed head, still too fearful to meet his gaze, she began walking to retrieve it but he grabbed her arm.

"Don't worry about it, Sammy. I forgive you." He spun her around to hug her from behind, a little too tight for her liking. "Hey, I have a better idea. How about you stay home tonight? I'll make a nice romantic dinner by candlelight. There will be champagne, roses, music, the works. I'll even dress in that tuxedo I wore to my brother's wedding you liked so much."

She struggled lightly in his arms, but his elbow pressed harshly into her breast. "Noah, we need the money. I can't just quit. You know how much he's going to be paying me for just a day's work."

"Just stay home."

"There's no reason to not go. Besides, I love performing, you know that. It's like I'm not even working." Her fingers trailed down the length of his arm, keeping her voice as calm as possible. "You know that, right?"

He grabbed her hand, wrenching it behind her back. She gasped as he forced her wrist back, her flesh stretching to its limit.

"I can't believe you're still going to him," he snarled. She opened her mouth to speak, plead her case again, but he smothered her mouth. "I don't want you near that club again. In fact, I don't want you leaving the apartment anymore. I'm tired of you being a little whore prancing around town looking for a dick to suck when you should be home sucking mine." He twisted her other hand behind her back, letting go of her mouth for only a moment to do so.

Her body tensed. She struggled for only a few seconds before he slammed her to the ground, forcing his entire weight on top of her. With the thickest part of his palm, he pressed her face into the carpet. She twisted her mouth to escape the floor, trying to breathe. Something firm brushed against the back of her thigh and the tears began.

"Don't move again," he whispered in her ear before nibbling on it. "We were doing so well, Sammy. Why'd you have to ruin it? If you let me inside you, I'll think about forgiving you again. So, be a good girl and hold still."

Sam felt him shift his weight around and soon he was sliding her sweatpants off her waist.

 _Promise that if you need protection, you'll use it,_ Oswald's voice echoed.

She always thought Noah could turn around and be the same man she fell in love with three years ago. And then he did. She thought finally, I can live happily ever after with the man of my dreams. All his abuse would be forgiven.

But Noah didn't love her. He may have said it many, many times but there had never been any truth in his words. There never could be. How could he love her and mistreat her so horribly? How could she allow him to hurt her for so long? She had been so sure so many times that it was worth staying.

Her panties were stretched and ripped from her waist, burning lines into the nooks of her hips.

But he had turned back to his old ways so quickly, so violently. If her father were still alive, he would've put a stop to it long ago. Would he be disappointed in her now? He hadn't raised her to be submissive. She was supposed to be strong. She was raised liked a boy: to spit, drink beer, and fight. She was the tomboy. She picked fights with boys larger than herself and often won. It wasn't unlike her to come home with a black eye or bloodied nose.

But after that night in the alleyway, so near drunken unconsciousness, her body pounded into the frigid cement, she allowed it to happen. She thought she deserved all of it from every last boyfriend and lover because she deserved it. She deserved the choking, the punching, the bruises and blood. She deserved to cut herself and scar her body until it was almost unrecognizable.

"Just relax, baby."

With one last adjustment, Noah thrust himself inside, ripping through her clenched muscles. She screamed into the carpet as his hand shoved her skull down to muffle her cries. He gripped her hair, keeping her in place.

But she was aware of his hands, one on her head while the other locked her wrists together. He was having difficulty keeping her hands and after a series of quick thrusts her hand came loose. Without hesitation, she was reaching back and digging her nails into his face, scratching at his ears. Before she could catch his eyes, he was staggering to his feet.

She was on her feet in moments, dashing to the bedroom as she tugged on her pants. She slammed the door behind her, then grabbed the nightstand and propped it against the doorknob. The diamond ring bounced from the commotion, but didn't fall.

 _Promise that if you need protection, you'll use it._

She tore through her pile of clothes next to the bed, checking every pocket. _It's here, I know it's here! Where is it?_

A monstrous bang vibrated off the door, the surface cracking under pressure.

Sam's fingers felt something hard and small in the last pair of jeans on the floor. She dug it out and flipped open the blade. The sharpened edge smiled back at her.

Another bang echoed in the room, the wood giving way to a tight fist. Noah reached in through the hole and, with the tips of his fingers, nudged the nightstand just enough to open the door ajar.

"Sammy, stop this," he grunted, pushing the door against the table, trying to move it further. "Look at what you made me do to the door."

"Don't come any closer. I'm warning you!" She forced the knife in front of her, her hand shaking furiously. She felt her knees could crumble as she held her ground.

"Sammy, baby," Noah cooed. He wedged himself through the door, the knob jutting into his gut. "Put the knife down. Let's talk about this."

"You had your chance to talk!"

He circled around to the other side of the bed. "Just calm down." His eyes never left the shining, sharp tip.

"No, I'm done with you." She tried so hard, holding her breath, clenching her jaw, but tears still pricked at her eyes. "I loved you. I _love_ you. What did I ever do to you to make you hate and hurt me this much?"

Noah stopped directly on the other side of the bed, placing his hand on the neck of her acoustic guitar that sat on its stand in the corner. "What's all this talk about hating you? I don't remember ever telling you I hated you. You know I love you with all my heart. And I don't hurt you. You hurt yourself, which in turn hurts me. I've never drawn a drop of blood from you."

Sam inched toward the door and he grabbed the guitar.

"You _bit_ me, twice! How do you not remember that?" Still holding the knife outward, she pushed the nightstand against the wall, opening the door completely. "Now, I'm going to leave and you're not going to follow me. If you do, I will hurt _you_."

"What, you're going back to your boss?" he sneered, lifting the instrument. "You're leaving me for that ugly motherfucker?"

She inched through the threshold, not daring to turn her back to him. "It doesn't matter where I go as long as you're not with me."

Within a millisecond of her words vibrating from her lips, his face twisted into rage. He sprang across the bed, his balance compromised at the sudden shift of the surface. Sam dashed from the room, abandoning her defensive stance. She still clenched the knife desperately.

She would never know if it was because she was too slow or if Noah's reach was too far but the base of the guitar smashed into the back of her head. Wooden fragments sprayed all about. The force of the blow propelled her forward, her face crashing into the front door. Bone and wood splintered in her ear and consciousness threated to leave her as soon as she hit the floor. The switchblade fell from her hand, slicing weakly down her forearm.

"There," Noah panted, dropping the guitar remains at his feet. "Now I hurt you. You happy?"

Her vision couldn't focus, a darkness clouding the borders and edging its way to the center. Her head was on fire, throbbing angrily. She couldn't breathe through strained lungs. A thick liquid ran down the back of her throat and she coughed wetly, the taste of copper overpowering her tongue. Touching a shaky finger to her face, she lifted it close to her eyes. Her skin was dripping red.

"Someone… hear that… call cops. Let's get out…" Noah's voice faded in and out. She could see his shadow moving around her, the details in the walls and ceiling blurring until she only saw splotches of color. Then the pain blissfully left her, dropping her into the endless darkness of unconsciousness.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Thank you so much for all who have been keeping up with my little story! It means so much to me, you guys have no idea!  
_

 _I love reading your comments too so if you like, or didn't like, what you read, let me know! I love critiques!_


	13. Chapter 13 - Wellness Check

Chapter 13 - Wellness Check

* * *

Oswald couldn't help but watch Victor's thick fingers twirl around the pewter ring around his middle finger. A smug smile was plastered deeply on the assassin's face. They stood together at the bottom of the stairs to the balcony in silence, the air thick between them.

Of all the nights he had to show up for an 'inspection'.

The stage was empty but the lights were hot and bore down on the drum set and guitars waiting. The crowd chatted amongst themselves, the roar of their voices shaking the foundation. The amount of patrons hadn't faltered since Sam's last performance which only made Oswald all the more nervous.

"Anything?" he asked Butch, who quickly descended from the office upstairs. But Butch's face was grim and he shook his head. An angry chill ran up Oswald's spine. "What time is it?"

Butch checked his watch then showed it to his boss. "She's got five minutes."

"Oh, the stories I get to tell Don Falcone," Victor teased then let out a giggle. "I think your days are numbered, little Penguin."

Oswald ignored Victor as best he could but the truth was eating away at him. He was going to get an earful from Falcone for failing during one of the busiest nights since he became owner. But Sam was going to get an earful from him. He thought they had been on the same page, they agreed, that the night they spent together had been nothing but a fluke.

 _This was a mistake and a one-time thing._

Her words still stung but he held them in highest regards. Until Tawny did her job that was how he needed to see things. He allowed his feelings to overpower his judgement, his common sense. But business needed to stay business, and right now business was in trouble.

"Have you talked to her bandmates lately?" Oswald asked Butch. "Maybe they've heard something."

"No, not lately. Last time I spoke with them was about an hour ago. They hadn't heard anything then."

"I'll go see if they have an update," Oswald announced, turning to walk away. He was more than aware of Victor's heavy boots trudging behind him but the added pressure quickened his pace.

They made their way backstage where Tommy, Brax and Vince were huddled together, their faces aglow with their cellphones. Then Tommy brought his to his ear only to take it down again a moment later.

"Her voicemail is full now," he scowled, slamming his thumb down on the button to disconnect the call.

Brax only grunted in response, not taking his eyes off his screen. A long strand of his dark hair fell from behind his ear.

"I've got nothing," Vince sighed. "And my battery is getting low." He stuffed his phone in his pocket and looked up, waving casually at Oswald as he walked forward. "Hey, have you heard from her?"

Oswald shook his head. "We've been trying to reach her, leaving her messages. Has something like this happened before?" Sam didn't strike him as someone who lacked punctuality but the question needed to be asked.

"Usually if she was going to be late for something she'd call you as soon as she knew," Brax grumbled, putting his phone away as well. "I mean, it's not unlike her to disappear for a few hours without answering her phone, but not right before a show."

"If she doesn't show up or call within the next few minutes, I'm calling Andrea. This is ridiculous," Vince blurted, readying his phone.

Brax glanced over to him slowly, his face twisting as realization washed over him in the worst way. "Andrea? My sister Andrea? How do you have her number? _Why_ do you have it?"

"We're… just good friends?" Vince's voice stammered and cracked. He held his hands up defensively.

"Are you sleeping with my sister?" he screamed furiously, pitch of his voice hitting a squeaky tone. He reached for Vince's throat but he dodged his fingers quickly.

"What happens between two consensual adults is their own business!" Vince laughed, skipping away from his maddening grasp. He dialed as he moved, only fueling Brax's anger.

Tommy shuffled over to Oswald and Victor, keeping away from the commotion. "Andrea can sing and play guitar too," he mentioned to Oswald, whose mouth was forming into a frustrated line. "I think Sammy is better though. But do you want to know my opinion as to why she's not here? I think since she just got engaged, she's probably still at home 'celebrating'" He lifted air quotes for emphasis on his crude joke and flashed a sly smile. "I know I would be."

Oswald's hands were already on Tommy's collar, his wild eyes drilling into him. "What did you just say?"

"Sorry… sorry!" Tommy stuttered. "Is that some kind of workplace sexual harassment? I thought we were all cool!"

"She's engaged. When?" Oswald tried his best to control himself, forcing his voice to level but a defeated twinge rose up in his throat. He swallowed it down only for it to surface again. It had to be some cruel, cruel inside joke that he just wasn't familiar with.

 _It has to be._

"I got a call a couple of nights ago. She was whispering and the call was only about a minute long but she told me her boyfriend proposed to her." He flinched when Oswald tensed at the words. "Sorry, sorry!"

Victor smirked, crossing his arms. "Well, this is quite the pickle, huh?" He leaned in, nonchalantly dropping his arm across Oswald's shoulders. "What are you going to do? There are so many options to choose from."

Oswald released the shaken Tommy, not daring to shake Victor away. "I'm going to pry her from whatever humble abode she crawls out of and drag her here if I have to." He then turned to the idiots still brawling on the floor. "You three will still perform tonight as scheduled. I'm assuming you can handle yourselves alone."

"Of course!" Tommy was sweating profusely, eyes wide with fear.

A smug smile stretched across Oswald's mouth before he thrust his finger toward the stage. "Then get out there and entertain. Call this Andrea if need be. If there are any problems, bring them up with Butch. Excuse me." He walked past Victor with a quick, determined pace and wasted no time finding Butch and Gabe in the crowd.

"You're in charge," he ordered, taking Butch's wrist and checking the time. Sam was officially late. "No one has heard from her for hours. I'm going to her apartment. Make sure _they_ ," he pointed to the stage just as the three stooges walked out, "don't make a mockery of my club. We'll be back soon." Grabbing a tight hold of Gabe's sleeve, he pushed themselves through the crowd, shoving bodies left and right. It never occurred to him to take his coat until he stepped outside to a gentle, white flurry. But there was no use turning back now.

Sam was going to be the victim of his fury for more reasons than one.

* * *

It took Oswald a moment to remember the apartment number, having given Tawny the photograph days beforehand. But soon he and Gabe were standing at the end of the hallway, pounding his fist against the door

"Samantha, open up!" he shouted, then paused to hear for any commotion. But there was none, so he pounded again. No answer, no noise inside at all.

"Want me to shoot the lock off?" Gabe offered, placing a hand on the holster around his shoulders.

"Don't be ridiculous," Oswald scoffed, pulling his lock picking case from his jacket pocket. He knew it would come in handy if he kept it in the car. "The last thing we need is someone calling the police. I can't handle spending another minute in one of those nauseating cells again." With delicate, precise fingers, Oswald disengaged the lock with ease. Replacing the case in his jacket once more, he cautiously opened the door.

The temperature inside the apartment was significantly lower than that of the hallway. The city nightlife echoed out the open window to the left as they walked in, the neon lights reflecting off the thick television directly adjacent. Despite the open window allowing cold night air to drift inside, the smell of bleach was still very obvious. Groping for a light switch near the door, Oswald flicked it on.

A pure white blemish sat heavily in the carpet in front of him, the bristles of the fabric still dark with moisture. A smaller, thinner blemish was nearby. He took one step closer and bent at the waist, the chemical smell stinging his nose.

"Samantha?" he called out again. His eyes caught sight of her boots toppled over near the doorway, then her leather jacket strewn over the back end of the couch. On the other side of the couch, a crumpled bag belonging to the bagel bistro down the street was on the coffee table, a cup stuffed face down inside it. Beside that was a clear cup with a straw, the contents inside brown and sickening.

"Keep your eyes open," Oswald whispered to Gabe. His steps were slow and deliberate, as silent as his knee would allow. Gabe closed and locked the door behind them.

Oswald flicked on the light in the hallway, it finally dawning on him how large the apartment actually was. The apartment he grew up in, his Mother's, was nothing more than one large room and a bathroom so small the bathtub couldn't fit. His current apartment was larger than this, yes, but he paid an arm and a leg for it on Falcone's salary. Even when he was a mole in Maroni's midst, the one bedroom/one bathroom/small kitchen apartment was what he could afford. Sam's place seemed to be about the same size, which made Oswald wonder how much exactly she was making from other clubs and bars; he doubted Noah had a job only because of his severe hatred for the man forced him to think of him as nothing but a lazy lowlife.

Gabe treaded heavily down the hallway, checking the rooms. Oswald turned into the kitchen, stopping abruptly at the sight of the wilting, yellow roses sitting in murky water. And the card folded beside it. The edges of it were weak with wear but the paper itself was grooved and seemed expensive. The _Sorry_ written on the front felt crude compared to his own cursive. It was Noah's handwriting no doubt. He scoffed at the thought before opening it. His eyes scanned the words, his smugness dissipating with every syllable.

 _I couldn't control myself. I'm so very sorry._

His fingers tightened around the paper.

 _You know I wouldn't hurt you if I could help it._

His teeth clenched, his molars digging into themselves, threatening to crack.

 _I just worry about keeping you safe from bad people. I love you so much baby._

Oswald tore the paper to pieces. The vase was shattered on the floor within seconds, his heels stomping hard on the petals until they were nothing more than specks of yellow.

 _I was right! I was right about everything!_

That had to have been bruises on her neck that afternoon. She was terrified of her boyfriend – _fiancée_ – and had been for God knew how long. He had been perfectly right about everything… and he allowed it to happen. He was so wrapped up in what she would think of him if he exposed the truth, despite his lack of evidence, that he didn't think of the consequences of his silence.

"Boss, you're going to want to see this," Gabe called from the next room and Oswald hurried over. All his bodyguard needed to do was lift a finger and Oswald saw the hole in the bedroom door, the clothes scattered haphazardly on the floor, the engagement ring on the nightstand. He couldn't stand touching the ring, the pear-shaped diamond dull in the darkness, the symbol of a false love. It was strictly for manipulation, no doubt, and the thought of laying one finger on it made his stomach churn.

How could she have dealt with the abuse? Yes, she was a strong individual, strong enough to talk back to him, her boss, but yet she allowed this? Oswald had no idea how long she had been in the relationship but it seemed long enough to think engagement wasn't out of the question. Why hadn't she left him the moment it started?

Gabe knelt down, taking a closer look at the sleeves of a blue sweater. The thin fabric was stiff with strips of dark stains strewn the length of each sleeve.

"Looks like blood," he whispered, showing Oswald, who went pale at the sight.

"I believe it is. But it's old." It was a self-inflicted wound, no doubt; a deep one. He noticed several other sweaters, and some jeans, were dotted with bloodied stains, some fresher than others. Just the thought of her digging a sharp edge into her skin made Oswald–

Short, rhythmic pummeling came from the front door. Oswald and Gabe froze.

"GCPD," a woman announced from the hallway. "Open up!"

Oswald deliberated whether or not he could jump from the third floor window unscathed but knew without a doubt his knee would certainly snap. He held his finger to his lips for Gabe.

"This is a wellness check," the woman continued. "Open the door Miss O'Shea, Mr. White. This is your final chance. If this door isn't opened, we'll be coming in!"

 _Well, this is inconvenient._

Instead of just standing there waiting for his inevitable arrest, Oswald searched around the bathroom, checking if there was anything he missed. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He sifted through the drawers under the sink but there were only normal toiletries, hair accessories, cologne and perfume.

Opening the final drawer, the lowest on the left, was empty, except for a small, lonely matchbox and a pocketknife. The blade was extended, the edge flaked with dry blood. Oswald recognized the ivory hilt immediately although it was stained red. His heart leapt to his throat. He prayed, _prayed_ that wasn't her blood. It was Noah's. It was Noah's because she promised she'd only use it for protection.

 _She promised._

But if she kept her promise, then that meant she had needed protection.

 _Samantha, where are you?_

The lock on the front door split, two officers, a man and a woman, entering with guns drawn. They barked their orders and moments later Oswald was kneeling on the floor, hands pried behind his back and cuffed. He watched the woman search through the apartment, the man close by with his hand ready on his pistol. The woman discovered the bloodied clothes, the bloodied knife, and called it in.

Oswald stayed silent to their questions, assuming the fifth, and continued to not speak on the way to the precinct with Gabe at his side.


	14. Chapter 14 - Favor Still Owed

Chapter 14 - Favor Still Owed

* * *

"Ha! See, Jim? Maybe you should start trusting the ole instincts once in a while. Could be saving us a lot of time if you did."

"Don't hold your breath."

Harvey had taken one look at the corpse on the table, a white sheet covering her torso, seeing the fine slices of flesh missing from her shoulders and neck. The saturation of the exposed muscles had dulled. Faded purple marks stained her neck. Staples had embedded themselves into the Y incision in her chest.

"I told you there was a relation with her and the other girls." Harvey smiled smugly.

"It does seem that way," Lee said, closing the report in her hands and setting it on her desk. "There are several contusions around her neck, indicating she was strangled to death. There are fractures on the back of the skull. A few scrapes on her hands and knees. There are lacerations, one on each shoulder at about a centimeter deep and three inches long. The cut made on her neck," she turned the victim's head to the side to show the exposed tendons, "was made post-mortem, and definitely not as clean as the others. Looks like it may have been a last minute decision. There was also signs of intercourse, though whether she was alive or not when it happened is inconclusive."

Jim sighed. "Other than the cut on the neck, it does look like she's victim number five," "Last I heard, Forensics is still working on the hair and fibers found on her clothes." He told Ed to expedite the results in fear of more victims in the close future. Bodies were popping up at an alarming rate and it was only a matter of time before another one came out of the woodwork. Mayor James and Commissioner Asshat were already shoving threats down their throats to catch the killer. If there was ever a way to keep them both away, at least for a while, solving this case was it.

Ruby Ventura had just graduated college with a Bachelor's Degree in Forensic Science. She had been valedictorian at her graduation. She wanted to work for the GCPD one day, her mother said, seemingly oblivious of her daughter's profession. She wanted to make Gotham a safer place. And now she was a victim of the city's rotten core. The irony was almost too painful.

"But there was this." Lee picked up a small plastic sample jar from her desk. Inside was a wad of moist black matter, no bigger than the face of a watch. "I found that in her mouth. I'll be handing it off to Ed to identify it."

"Chewing tobacco?" Harvey guessed, taking the jar. "Any signs of it in her teeth?"

"None that I saw. I swabbed her cheeks so, we'll know along with the rest of the results."

Jim took the jar next, examining it against the light. Was there something there, hidden in the darkness of the material? He could vaguely see the line of a lighter color but for all he knew it could've been his exhausted eyes playing tricks on him. Whether he had tried to sleep or not, it evaded him almost insistently. His mind couldn't stop spinning around the case, being nominated for President of the Policeman's Union and whatever favor Penguin would eventually be asking for.

"Oh, also," Lee began, lifting the sheet to reveal Ruby's left hand. She held it up for the detectives, singling out the ring finger. The remnants of a pale line circled around the digit. "She could've been married, or at least engaged. The ring had some sort of stone."

"A ring wasn't recovered from the scene," Jim noted. "They wiped that area clean." He had scoured the crime scene report over and over. He would've remembered something as important as a ring.

Harvey leaned forward, taking a closer look at the finger. "There's still an APB out for Juan Martinez but I haven't heard anything yet. Could be a husband or fiancée instead of boyfriend like her work file said."

"We may need to do some grunt work on this one, partner."

Harvey's face lit up in false realization. "Or Alvarez could do it for us. I'm sure Essen would let us recruit him for the case."

Knuckles rapped on the plastic window of the door. A shadow waited on the other end. Harvey opened the door and an officer poked his head in, a manila folder in his hand.

"Gordon, do you have a minute? A perp was brought in just now. He's," the officer sighed exasperatedly, " _demanding_ to speak with you immediately. Says it's an emergency."

"Who is it?" Jim frowned and looked to Harvey.

"I bet I know who it is," Harvey worried quietly before the officer could respond.

The officer opened the folder. "Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot." His eyes widened for a moment at the unusual name. "The quicker you talk to him the quieter the station will be."

 _Oh, crap._ Jim massaged his forehead. "Alright, I'll be right out. Thank you."

With a nod of his head, the officer left, closing the door behind him.

"It looks like he might be asking for that favor faster than we thought," Harvey whispered softly, keeping Lee in the dark.

 _And I must be a psychic._

"That name sounds familiar…" Lee commented, covering Ruby with the sheet.

Jim forced himself to smile. "He's just a lowlife criminal. I'll go see what he wants just to shut him up." He walked to her quickly and she kissed the corner of his mouth. "I'll see you tonight." Just like with Barbara, he'd keep Lee in the dark as long as possible. Although Lee was much more adventurous and understanding of the life of a cop, there were just some things that needed to stay unsaid.

"Don't be late," she teased and hugged his arm before he left.

"You want me to come with?" Harvey offered, right on Jim's heels.

Jim stopped as the hallway ended, suddenly exposed to the openness of the GCPD headquarters. From the across the room, he could see Penguin and his bodyguard in the first cell. He could make out the icy stare, the intensity deep inside it. Jim couldn't help but picture him down that dark hallway, prostitute in hand, ready to enter one of the room. Perhaps he'd keep that bit of information to himself until he found it useful, but he grimaced just at the thought of whatever kinky thing Penguin was into.

"You might as well," Jim sighed. "I'm going to have a migraine after all this." Hesitantly walking across the room, he stopped at the cell, folding his arms. "What'd you do this time, Penguin?" He expected him to smile, play his friendly, submissive role to slime his way free from his cage, but his hardened stare didn't falter and no smile formed on his lips. His grip was tight on the bars between them.

"I need to speak with you privately," he said. Sweat was gathering on his upper lip. "Now. Time is of the essence."

Harvey scoffed. "You aren't exactly in the best position to be barking orders."

Penguin didn't take his eyes off Jim. "Please, Jim. It's a matter of life and death. Not for me, for a friend. She's in danger."

 _She?_ Other than his mother and Fish Mooney, Jim never thought Penguin was capable of having a 'she' in his life, at least not one he pleaded for. He grimaced again; could he be talking about the prostitute? Had Evelyn given her a hard time and now he was begging for help?

 _True love, indeed._

But then he remembered his last visit to the Iceberg Lounge, moments after finishing their conversation, when the man and woman interrupted. Penguin's reaction to the woman had been unusual: his set jaw, his wide eyes, the stumble he took just trying to get out of his seat. He hadn't thought much about it then but he didn't need to be a cop to know what was going on. At least he hoped it was her and not the prostitute.

"What kind of danger?" Jim asked.

" _Privately_ ," Penguin insisted, glancing around.

With a sigh, Jim asked Harvey, "Hey, see if there are any free interrogation rooms." Harvey left reluctantly, obviously suspicious of their prisoner.

* * *

With a swift click of the cuffs, Penguin was secured to the table. He didn't struggle or complain as he sat there, but his fists were tight in its shackles. Jim and Harvey sat on the opposite side.

"So, I hear you were caught breaking and entering," Jim said, folding his hands in front of him on the table.

"This isn't why I need to speak with you," Penguin blurted, panic rising in his voice. "Time is not on our side! We need to act now."

"Hold your horses!" Harvey yelled, raising his hands for silence. "Let us get our business out of the way and then you can speak. That's how the justice system works."

Penguin slammed his hands on the table, the pound echoing off the walls. He was losing his composure quickly. "P-Please, detectives." His eyes glistened with tears. "You have no idea how important this is."

"Alright," Jim finally said despite Harvey's protest. "Talk."

With a sniffle and a wipe of his eye, Penguin began. "Tonight, I was expecting a singer at the Lounge. She never showed. I went to her apartment. The door was opened ajar so I went in, making myself known, of course. No one was there but the place felt fishy so I… We took a look around. I was inside when the officers arrested me, yes, but I was there because…" He paused, his mouth staggering as he thought his words carefully. But he sighed, rolling his eyes. "She started at the Lounge about a week ago. Since Tuesday, I believe, I've been suspicious of her involvement in an abusive relationship with her boyfriend. I thought the worst when she didn't show up for work so I went to do my own investigation."

"And what exactly was fishy about the place?" He couldn't describe how happy he was that it had nothing to do with a prostitute.

"The place reeked of bleach, and you know just as well as I do what that could mean."

"So, someone spilled something and needed to clean it up," Harvey shrugged. "Doesn't necessarily mean something."

"It does when you go into the bedroom and see bloody clothes. Or go into the bathroom and find a bloodied knife. Or go into the kitchen and blatantly read…" Penguin trailed off. He sighed, bowing his head for a moment in defeat.

"And read what, Penguin?" Harvey teased.

"I may have had a small outburst," he admitted. "But if you look on the kitchen floor, you'll find a torn up card from the boyfriend basically confessing that he hurt her. There's broken glass there too… And maybe some flowers I may have stomped on." He straightened his shoulders.

A smothered smile crept across Harvey's lips, not doubt thinking of Penguin throwing a hissy fit. "What are their names?"

"Samantha O'Shea and Noah White. You two met them briefly at the Lounge just after we spoke about _the farm_."

Jim mentally pat himself on the back. "And what made you come to the conclusion of the abuse before you broke into the apartment?" Although the conversation at hand was important, he wasn't about to let Penguin forget his crime.

"Her fear of him. The way she was weary around him." His jaw set again, a snarl forming on his upper lip. "The way he snatched away her paycheck the moment I gave it to her. Her defensiveness when I asked her about it."

Harvey leaned forward. "And you didn't tell this to a cop beforehand because…?"

"It's complicated."

Bruised nails picked at the chain connecting Penguin to the table. He was thinking, watching his fingers. Something about this Samantha girl… Jim could tell there was something different about her. She wasn't just a random woman he was infatuated with, oh no.

"Penguin," Jim began cautiously. "You're not exactly the type to ask us for help finding someone. You have you own connections through Falcone, so why come to us? What is it about her that you don't want Falcone to know about?"

"That's none of your concern, Jim Gordon… Plus you're here, Falcone's men are not. It's convenient." Penguin snapped. "Are you going to help me find her or not? If you don't, her blood could be on your hands."

Harvey stood from his chair, jutting a finger at Penguin. "No, it'll be on _your_ hands. If you were suspicious about anything, you should've told someone sooner."

"I said it's complicated!"

Jim raised his hands for order. Despite Penguin's secrets, there was still a woman in potential danger. It was worth looking into. "Do you know where she could be?"

"Other than the Lounge, I'm not personally aware of her whereabouts. She performs at other clubs and bars around Gotham but I don't know the names. Butch found her at a bar uptown but that was all he said. I'll call him tonight once I'm released to get you the information." The sentence was so matter-of-factly, almost humorously so.

"You're not being released tonight," Jim grumbled, also standing. He spoke before Penguin could protest. "We'll look into where Samantha could be, but you still broke and entered into her apartment. Until we can gather all the facts, you're staying here."

"N-no, we all have to be looking for her!" He stood as well, hunched over from his short leash. "Please, Jim. I'm begging you. I'm afraid she could be in serious trouble. I'll pay the bail money right away. Just, please!" Then, in a soft hiss, he said, "You owe me a favor."

"I can't. You're now part of an ongoing investigation. Until we get the facts." Jim spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. He swallowed down his fear for the inevitable retribution coming for him in the near future for denying the favor. He had seen Penguin in a panic before, but it was never for something trivial. It was possible his alarm was fueled by whatever sort of feelings he had for Samantha, but it worried Jim nonetheless. If police protocol didn't specifically say, and if his trust in Penguin didn't rise and fall so often, he would've at least thought about letting him go.

With steady hands, he unshackled the handcuffs from the table. He led Penguin out of the room, a firm grasp on his shoulder to steer him back into the cell.


	15. Chapter 15 - David

Chapter 15 - David

* * *

The dark bristles of the mascara flicked upwards on Tawny's eyelashes, trying her best to apply her makeup in the darkness of her car. The mirror of the visor was smudged with old fingerprints and lipstick kisses.

Noah had gone into _Breathe_ , a rather pricey night club in the heart of uptown Gotham, and had been inside for the last half hour. Tawny had parked farther down the block in front of a 'No Parking' sign since any sign of a free space was already occupied. Penguin would have to reimburse her if he wanted the job done quickly. Two days had already passed since their meeting and she was growing frantic for that promised two thousand dollars. It seemed that night it was now or never.

She took one last look at the photo Penguin had given her. She had to recognize Noah through the crowd and she would hate to pick up the wrong man. She examined his face: the lines of his jaw, the laugh lines in the corners of his eyes, the neat swoop of his light hair, the tension in his hands as they lay on the table in front of him. He was cute, in an intense way. Perhaps she'd have some fun instead of just sleeping with him for money. She tucked the photo into the glove box and, with one last look at herself in the mirror, spritzing her favorite perfume against her neck and hair, climbed out of her car. She jumped as the bitter cold nipped at her bare shoulders and legs, but she left her coat in the backseat, feeling too lazy to carry something with her. At least the sidewalk had been shoveled.

Her plump cleavage and tiny skirt were her ticket inside and soon she was deaf from the bass vibrating off the walls. Faces were almost impossible to see in the flashing lights. Bodies heaved and writhed against themselves, squirming to the music. But she managed to push through the sea of sweat, almost collapsing against the bar from tripping on an outstretched leg.

 _Why'd I wear such tall heels?_

She smoothed down her blue hair and slid onto a bar stool, her thick thighs squeezing across each other. The bartender hurried over, not without glancing at her chest, and she ordered a simple martini. She paid him from the cash stuffed inside her bra and her drink was in front of her in no time.

To her luck, it only took a few minutes to spot the familiar angular line of his jaw across the bar. He was turned out to face the thumping, a drink in one hand and his cheek cupped in the other. His shirt was black or maybe dark blue, with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the first few top buttons undone. He looked amazingly bored in the busy club.

 _Time to work._

On dainty toes, she strutted across the bar, holding her drink with a limp wrist. She puffed her chest, arched her back and soon he noticed a pair of breasts walking toward him. His eyes lit up, eyebrows raising, but a smile stayed hidden. He seemed more amazed than interested, but his tone soon changed.

"Hey, handsome," he shouted into his ear, struggling to be heard over the music. "What's your name?" The woman sitting next to him moved to the dance floor and Tawny slid onto the barstool, crossing her legs again.

Without hesitation, he shouted "David" in return, "What's your name?" He teased the nook of her knee with calloused fingers.

At first Tawny thought she had been mistaken. He said the name so matter-of-factly that she may have pursued the wrong man. But she had studied that photograph for the past few days; so much so she was confident she could draw him without a reference, though perhaps not cleanly. The man in front of her had to be Noah White, she was so sure of it.

"Amanda," she answered, shaking his hand politely. Ms. Evelyn's number one rule when attracting clients was always use an alias. Even Penguin had been left in the dark.

'David's' hand lay flatly on her thigh as they spoke, ordering a few more drinks. Laughter was had, stories were told, flirting ensued, and no word of him having a girlfriend or the like. It all seemed rather vanilla to Tawny, but whatever got the job done. Work wasn't always as exciting as it seemed to be.

Step one was the usual small talk, maybe have a few drinks to loosen up. Step two was–

"You want to get out of here?" he asked before finishing off the last of his drink. He opened his wallet and paid the bartender their tab. Tawny noticed the amount he put down, wondering if he was a generous tipper or just too tipsy to read the bills.

"And where would we go?" She leaned forward, her hand trailing up his leg, aware of the long bump against his thigh. Her palm dragged slowly against the tip. He shuddered and fidgeted in his seat.

"We could go back to my place," he hissed, holding her hand against him. With his other hand, he held the back of her head and kissed along her neck.

 _From vanilla to mint chocolate chip in the span of three seconds!_ His lips grazed against the spot where her throat met her jaw and she moaned softly in approval. Maybe the night wouldn't be as wasted as she thought it would be. Maybe she was going to have a little fun after all. Taking a grip of his hair, she pried his head back and kissed him firmly, just once.

"Did you drive here?" Her red lips caressed his earlobe. His back stiffened. He was triggered and soon enough he was pulling her from the club, his arm wrapped possessively around her swaying waist.

Walking down the street, past her car, he opened the passenger door of a gray sedan for her. The seats were dark leather which squeaked as she shuffled in, trying to stay modest for reasons unbeknownst to her. With a bit lip, he crawled in the driver's side and started the engine, turning out into the street rather quickly, almost unable to keep his eyes off her. He was eager, no doubt about it. It made Tawny proud knowing she still had the magic touch.

Within minutes, he was turning into a residential side of Gotham, townhouses packed on both sides of the street. The area wasn't familiar to her and she knew very well that his apartment was on the other side of town. She was suspicious at first until he swerved into the parking lot of the nearby park and cut the engine. It wasn't unusual; she'd had plenty of meetings at parks, alleys, forests, by the docks. Johns never liked taking their fun home with them.

"This looks like a good spot," he stated, obviously satisfied with his decision.

"I think the backseat will be roomier," she purred. As soon as she spoke, he was leaving the driver's seat for the backseat, his hands trembling. She joined him and was on him as soon as the doors locked.

Hands rubbed and gripped sensitive areas. Limbs intertwined, bare chests heaved, pleasure built. Tawny was excellent with her hands and mouth. Within mere minutes he was at full attention, her lips creating a strong suction around him. His fingers tangled in her hair, encouraging her to quicken the pace and she did, his palm forcing her farther and farther down. But she had to pry herself away to take a breath

With a harsh grip, he yanked her skirt up past her waist, tearing her panties in two.

Tawny smacked his hands away, sitting up on top of her feet. "What the hell!"

She tried to push her skirt back down but he tore the fabric vertically, creating a slit to her belly button. He forced his weight on top of her. The wind squeezed from her lungs, trapping under the force of his palm against her trachea as he shoved himself inside her. But her nails found his cheeks and she dug deeply, blood embedding itself underneath. He hissed, groping for her hands as he struggled to thrust.

Tawny was screaming, crying to deaf ears alone there in the deserted parking lot. He was laying completely on top of her, enduring her heartbreaking sobs directly into his ear.

"Hold still," he grunted, prying her head to the right. There was a pinch, then an immense burning at the nape of her neck. The throbbing dug in deeper and deeper, engulfing the muscle, tearing at capillaries.

 _Is he biting me? He's biting me!_

His body stilled over her frantic kicks and punches, holding her down with an iron grip. His teeth tugged lightly at her flesh once before he opened his mouth and sat up. He slurped and sniffed through the blood and saliva dripping from his chin.

In one last attempt, Tawny screamed, her lungs aching, her throat torn raw. Warm blood flowed down into her armpit, pooling underneath her. The smell came rushing to her when his palm lay flat on her cheek, turning her head to left. But as he leaned in to mark her again, with quick thinking, Tawny lashed forward, slamming the other side of her hand up into his throat. He wheezed, coughed and gasped, crimson bubbles forming as his breath squeezed through the spasm in his windpipe.

As he sat upright, instinctively grasping at his throat, Tawny pushed him away from between her legs. In the darkness she found the latch for the door, but it wouldn't budge. She pounded on the glass, shook the car with all her might, anything to get the door open.

In one swift, millisecond motion, a shaky hand twisted itself through her hair and, before she could scream on final time, slammed her cheek into the window. Her brain rocked in her skull, the dark loneliness of the night temporarily engulfing her consciousness.


	16. Chapter 16 - Family Affair

Chapter 16 - Family Affair

* * *

The shower pipes rattled and groaned, taking a moment to come awake before shooting icy water down on Amanda's hanging body. She didn't react at first, her skin reddening with each passing moment. Disappointed, Noah aimed the shower head toward her face and she awoke suddenly, gasping under the water, choking on her blue hair that fell flat against her face. She couldn't catch her breath, her bare breasts bouncing with each heave. He couldn't help but smile.

But she was thrashing around, struggling in the restraints that held her arms and legs up. He turned the water off, then balanced himself on the edge of the tub, inspecting the several screws in the tile of the shower he drilled to secure the wires around her ankles and wrists. A few were coming loose, the tile cracking under the pressure.

 _I'll have to add a few more if she keeps this up._

The bathroom built inside the garage wasn't the greatest. It was old, yes. Full of fungus and mildew, definitely. It probably hadn't been used since he lived there when he was a teenager, back when the property belonged to his parents. But they were long, _long_ gone.

Amanda was crying now, to his aggravation, but he didn't try to stop her. Sammy was still sleeping from her evening dosage, curled up underneath the sink, and wasn't expected to wake up for another half hour or so.

"Please…" Amanda begged, her breathing finally easing. Her eyes were shiny with tears. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you punched me in the throat." The reasoning almost seemed too obvious. "If you hadn't, you'd already be dead but now the situation has gotten into a whole 'eye for an eye' sort of thing. Plus, you scratched me." He pointed to himself, then glanced at the bathroom mirror behind him. Scabbed lines dragged themselves down his cheeks to his jawline. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hurt him. Sammy certainly never laid a hateful finger on him, despite her reaction to him that afternoon. "I don't think I deserve this. If it leaves a scar, I'm going to be upset."

Sammy stirred for a moment, her fingers groping at the thick ropes that tied her to the base of the sink, but her eyes stayed closed. Goose flesh lined her bare legs and arms, and he wondered if he should've kept her pants on. But wasn't it better to have quick access to her? She still had his shirt on, so she couldn't be _that_ cold.

 _Poor baby, her nose is so swollen._

The knock to her face had been worse than first perceived, but the cartilage had been popped back into place once they were both safe away from the city.

Noah knelt down and tucked a tuff of hair behind her ear, his thumb wiping away a spot of drying semen from her cheek. She was such a good girl before, why did she turn on him so fast? Things were going great! They were engaged, they were making sweet, sweet, _amazing_ love every day. And then she had to go ahead and steal from him? Yes, it was to get him something but it was the principle of the thing. She couldn't go around taking people's money. One day she could be stealing money to buy him something, the next day could be she's cheating on him and running off with some pointy-nosed smartass. That's how trust was compromised and if there was no trust in the relationship, what else was there? Well, her nice ass and perfect lips for one thing… but that was beside the point.

The point was there was a naked, bleeding girl in the tub.

"Are you a hooker?" he asked her. But she was sobbing quietly, clearly not hearing him, mucus running down her lip. He poked his finger into one of the indents from his bite in her shoulder. She screamed hoarsely, trying to writhe away from him but only slipping off the side of the tub.

"Yes or no?"

She nodded frantically. He lifted away his finger.

"I certainly know how to pick them," he laughed, turning to wash his hand in the sink. He watched Sammy as he turned on the faucet, but she didn't budge. "You're clean right? I'd hate to give Sammy anything. So far I've been picking the clean ones somehow. Just lucky, I guess."

But Amanda only started crying again. Letting out an exasperated sigh, he scrubbed away at his finger, jabbing the soap deep under his nail. There was no getting through to her apparently. Whatever. He'd have Roman take a blood sample just to be safe.

Yanking the hot water lever shut caused the pipes to groan and shake. Sammy woke, gasping at the sound, almost hitting her head on the underside of the sink. She looked confused at first but when the tears streamed down her cheeks Noah knew she was aware.

"How'd you sleep?" he asked, leaning over with a grin on his face.

Her eyes were scanning her surroundings, not making eye contact with him, almost as if she was mad at him. Her bangs were smeared across her forehead, greasy and sweaty. He had offered to bathe her but she only spat in his face. He'd try again tomorrow, maybe she was just too on edge from the new environment. She'd give in eventually. She always did.

She noticed Amanda and her dangling limbs in the tub but it wasn't until the two made eye contact that the realization took over. Tears welled in Sammy's eyes.

"You don't have to worry about her," Noah reassured. "She won't be here much longer." Sammy reared back to spit at him again but a swift kick to her side made her think otherwise. "What's your sudden obsession with spitting? I'll put a mask on you if I have to. I'm sure he's got some around here somewhere." But he couldn't begin to think where the medical supplies were hidden.

That was the deal after all. He could keep Sammy here if he didn't meddle in Roman's business. That was all fine and dandy as long as Roman didn't try to stop him.

"What are you going to do to me?" Amanda asked, her voice bubbling over saliva, snot, and tears. Ugly streaks of black mascara streamed down her cheeks. She certainly wasn't the vision she was before. Too bad.

"I don't like talking about work in front of Sammy. It's all too stressful for her. Right, baby?" He leaned down to make eye contact with her for just a brief moment, fearful of a saliva bullet with his name on it. Her eyes were bloodshot from her flowing tears. "No, no, it's alright, Sammy. I won't hurt you, just her. She did this to me." He pointed to the scratches on his cheeks.

"But look at what you did to her!" Sammy cried, her breath hitching. "Look at what you're doing to me! Why do you think this is normal?"

"Baby, there's nothing normal about anything. Normalcy doesn't exist in the real world, especially in Gotham. You've lived there for _how_ long and you don't know?" He scoffed, raising and dropping his hands in defeat. "You'd think you'd know that by now. I'm not normal, you're _certainly_ not normal and I bet she's not normal either." He jutted a thumb at the naked, bleeding hooker before tapping her suspended foot. "Are you normal?"

But Amanda only continued to sob. She wasn't interested in being a part of the conversation apparently.

The loud thud boomed from the bathroom door, the knob jiggling. Then a quieter knock rhythmically sounded.

"Bro, open up."

Noah groaned then put his finger to his lips, raising his eyebrows at both girls. "One sec." His eyes didn't leave his prisoners as he approached the door, but turned his back to open it.

Roman stood on the other side, a capped syringe in his hand. Noah had tried to hide the room from him, but, although they were twins, Roman was still three inches taller and his brown eyes widened when he saw the scene.

"What the–!"

Noah pushed him out, closing the door behind him. Roman almost tripped over one of the several stacks of boxes tucked away in the garage, and fell against his car. The garage itself was much, much colder than the bathroom and his breath was noticeable immediately. Rows of shelving lined the walls, filled with more boxes.

"What the _fuck_!" Roman began pacing, making wild gestures in his attempt to process what he just saw, the syringe still tight in his fist. "What are you _doing_ in there?"

"Look, OK, I get it," Noah started, taking his brother by the shoulders to keep him still. "This is probably pretty shocking for you, but–"

"You think!" He slapped his hands away and continued his pacing. "When you called me earlier you failed to mention that you'd be having more girls here! I'm more than happy to have you stay with me for a few days until things cooled down but that," he pointed to the bathroom, "that is not letting things _cool down_! I already feel weird about what you're doing with Sam but this is getting ridiculous."

"You didn't seem to care when all of this was happening to your ex-wife."

"Apples and oranges, dude. Emma needed to go and you fucking knew that then and know that now. Yeah, I appreciate what you did for me, though half of the money is yours anyway, but this is different." He started drooling from anger. "You are not married to Sam so it's not like you'll get any insurance money from her. And that still doesn't explain why you have a naked girl suspended from the tub!"

Noah rolled his eyes. He hated admitting mistakes. "It wasn't planned, obviously. She was creating too much of a fuss. I panicked, OK? I didn't want to do it right there in the parking lot in such a public place. I didn't know where else to go. I'm sorry."

"Do what, exactly?"

 _Shit._

Noah hadn't told his brother what he had been doing for the past few weeks and had wanted to keep it that way, fearing he wouldn't understand. But now because of his big, stupid mouth, he had no other choice. If he didn't say anything, Roman would just consistently nag and nag until he finally gave in. So, better get it done and over with now.

"So… you're pretty in tune with the news, right?"

Roman's brows narrowed exhaustedly. "Yes, I am, No."

"So… you've been hearing about… well, a string of murders–"

"You know what? I don't want to know. Whatever you're doing, I want no part of it, I won't be an accomplice again. We may have gotten away with it with Emma, but that was way too stressful for me. Just…" Roman raised his hands, taking a long, slow breath. "Just do whatever it is you're doing and get rid of her. I already have one girl to worry about. Just promise… _promise_ me you won't bring home anyone else."

"I know, I'm not. I promise."

"Alright, alright." He shook his head, sighing again. "Sam's due for another dosage. But I'm not fucking going in there. I've already seen too damn much."

"Fine, whatever. Give me a second and I'll take her out. I need some privacy anyway."

For a doctor, Roman was awful squeamish about the whole ordeal. It wasn't a big deal. Noah would take care of it like he always did. When had he ever let his brother down?

And with that, Noah quickly went back into the bathroom, only to find Sammy speaking to Amanda and catching her mid-sentence. He slammed the door behind him.

"I'm so, _so_ sorry–" she said to Amanda, then tearful eyes went wide at the sight of him. Rightfully so.

"What were you two talking about in here?" he teased, placing his hands on his hips. "Come on, share with the class." But they both stayed in silence, keeping their eyes lowered. The defiance filling the room was almost intolerable. "Please don't make me repeat myself. Sammy, you know how I hate to do that."

But there was silence, nonetheless. Even another kick to Sammy's side couldn't make her talk.

"Fine, be that way," he huffed then knelt down, thick fingers beginning to untie Sammy from the sink. "Be nice to Roman, please, baby?" he asked his fiancée, keeping his voice sweet and calm. "Don't spit on him. If you're good, maybe he'll give you a blanket. It's pretty cold out there."

Amanda's voice croaked, but she managed to mutter, "Please, I won't tell anyone what happened. Please, let me go…" Blood was dripping down her arms from the wires cutting deep into her flesh.

"You're obviously lying," Noah scoffed. "That's one of the oldest lines in the book. If you were more like Sammy, I'd probably believe you. You've never told anyone about our fun, right, love?" Sammy said nothing, her lips trembling.

With one last tug, the ropes came loose. He grabbed hold of her wrists in both hands, not making the same mistake twice, and steered her to her feet. But she stumbled into him, obviously on purpose, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

"If you wanted a hug, just say so," he cooed, kissing the side of her head. As they walked out of the room, he called back to Amanda, "I'll be back in a minute. I think it's time for you to go."

His words must've triggered some sort of outrage because Sammy started screaming and trying to get away. Amanda was as well, the wires cutting in deeper, surely close to hitting bone, but she paid the pain no heed.

"Julia, I'm so, so sorry!" Sammy screamed, planting her feet only for Noah to yank her forward. He struck her cheek with the back of his hand and he managed to yank her from the room in her momentary daze. "Ro, stick her!"

Roman rushed over, uncapping the syringe, but Sammy was wriggling around too frantically. With an assertive grip, Noah latched down onto her throat. She whimpered through gritted teeth, her back as stiff as a board, and stilled herself just long enough for Roman to prick her arm with the needle. It took several minutes for the pain killer to take hold of her but soon she was drowsy, growing limp in Noah's arms.

"Just keep an eye on her," Noah grunted, setting Sammy down against Roman's car. Before returning to the bathroom, he rummaged through one of the boxes on the shelf nearest to him.

 _Duct tape? No. Screwdriver? Maybe. Need something bigger–Ah!_

"You've got any tarp around here?" Noah asked, flicking off a piece of rust from the hammer's head.

Roman's face was white. "I'm not helping you." His voice was strained, nothing more than a whisper. "You're the hands-on guy in the family. Look for it yourself." He sat down next to Sammy, tucking his knees up to his chest.

He was always the weak one in the family. Noah was surprised he helped with Emma's disappearance at all, especially after the third time he vomited in the car that night on their way to the river. He was always so riddled with anxiety over every little thing. How the two brothers were birthed from the same vagina, Noah would never know. They couldn't be more different.

With a frustrated sigh, he kicked over boxes, tore down shelves until he found dingy old tarp rolled up into the corner pushed back behind a cabinet. He brushed off the dirt and old cobwebs then tucked into the crook of his arm, walking back into the bathroom and locked the door.

"So, your name's Julia and not Amanda?" he asked, setting the hammer down into the sink with a clang. With one swift motion, he spread the tarp out next to the tub, smoothing out the wrinkles. "I guess I'm not too surprised. Being in your line of work, you've got to have hundreds of names, right? Have to keep that identity hidden just in case the cops ask, I guess. You're a pretty good liar."

Julia was trembling in the tub, arms and legs caked with drying blood. Her face was swollen and red from her desperate sobs, streaks of black raining down from her eyes. But she was quietly waiting, eyeing his hand as he picked up and swung around the hammer.

"David… please," she croaked, sniffling back mucus and saliva.

Noah cringed at the disgusting sight. "Stop calling me that. You're not the only liar here. You've made a big mess of things. I mean, I blame myself for starting it, but then again you're the one that approached me at the club so…" He shrugged, the hammer dangling from a limp wrist. "But now I know that you lied to me, that your name really isn't Amanda. It's probably not even Julia either, so you've lied to me _and_ my girl. So, I hate to say it, but you've got to go."

* * *

 _Author's note: Thanks so much for the reviews from the last chapter! I'm feeling the love, you guys are awesome! :D I also love all the speculations I'm getting, it really lets me know you're invested and that what I'm doing here isn't all for nothing. Love ya!_


	17. Chapter 17 - Carnage and Rot

Chapter 17 - Carnage and Rot

* * *

"Nothing like a late night crime scene after a light snow to warm your bones," Harvey grumbled, sniffling through a red nose. He held his hands in front of the heat rushing from the vents in the car as it idled by the curb, just outside the boundaries of the yellow tape that surrounded the park and the parking lot beside it.

An officer rushed past them suddenly, just barely making it away from the car before lurching forward and vomiting down into a patch of snow. Another officer approached her, smoothing her back.

"Yeah, that's a great sign." Jim eyed the scene from the passenger side mirror. "Essen said it was pretty gruesome, but I have a feeling she was underselling it."

From the car, Jim could see the industrial lights illuminating the parking lot with quick bursts of light from cameras going off, Forensics documenting the scene. Those who weren't Forensics seemed to be keeping their distance, some even turning their backs. Jim found no comfort in seeing it.

"Come on, we've got a job to do," Jim sighed and crawled out of the car. His boots crunched down on the frozen grass, passing the other vehicles and officers, ducking under the yellow tape.

Then he froze. The path was clear of officers now and he saw everything. The body was naked, its flesh pale and blue, light snow sprinkled on the surface. It was turned onto its back, large breasts exposed, wide hips twisted to the side to stay modest, legs bent tightly. Hands lay gently on either side of the head, fingers curled, wrists lacerated deeply.

Jim continued walking, slower than before.

Tire marks indented themselves into the frost around her, the pattern deep and clear. The pavement around her head was crimson, deep and angry. That same kind of anger had left her face nothing more than a mangled hole of flesh and bone. Her nose had been forced inward, the remnants of the tip poking out from inside. Her eyes had deflated, sinking deeper against whatever brain matter she had left. Cheeks, lips, forehead, it all was unrecognizable. Whatever pile of carnage and rot was left on top of her shoulders wasn't a face any longer. Jim understood the officer's twisting stomach just moments before as his was now flipping in his abdomen. Even during his time at war, he couldn't remember seeing something so… wrong.

Harvey was by his side then, his expression unreadable, forcing Jim to mentally ask if he had seen anything worse than whatever it was that lay before them.

"Detectives." Ed approached the two, notebook in hand, ear muffs, again, tightly hugging his head. "Pretty bad, huh? Jane Doe, again. Hasn't been here for more than a few hours. Her wounds are still very fresh. The responding officer said neighbors saw a dark sedan leaving the scene, but couldn't see the plate number."

"Just tell me if there's similar cuts on the shoulders," Harvey said, holding up a hand to stop whatever riddle Ed had at the ready.

Ed lead the detectives closer to the body, using his pen to point to the left shoulder. "It's messy, but from what I can tell there is a similar slice." He tried to outline the air around the cut, but her blue hair was mostly concealing the wound. "But only the one. There doesn't seem to be anything on the right shoulder."

"Looks like he was having too much fun with her face, he forgot to leave his signature." Harvey's voice was low, almost saddening. "Lee is going to have a field day with this one."

"His victims are popping up faster and faster as this goes on…" Jim thought out loud. "Who knows how many more there could be before we catch him?"

"Then we better hurry up and do that."

Jim circled around the woman, examining the bruises and deep gashes around her wrists and ankles. "It looks like he had her tied up for a while beforehand, so he had more time with her, more than the other victims."

 _That blue hair…_

The color, although drenched with coagulated blood, seemed familiar to Jim somehow. Yes, it was Gotham so blue hair wasn't exactly uncommon, but he couldn't help shake the feeling he'd seen it before.

"How tall do you think she is?" Jim asked.

"Not very," Ed concluded, eyeing the body. "Perhaps five foot? Five foot two at the most, I'd say."

Jim leaned over, checking the bottoms of her feet. "So, you think it's safe to assume she wore high heels often to compensate?" Large calluses had formed along the soles of her feet.

"What are you getting at?" Harvey asked, heating his hands with his breath.

"I can't help but shake the feeling that I've seen her before."

"No offense, but I don't think even the Great Detective Jim Gordon could distinguish her without a face, not without analyzing the fingerprints or doing blood samples."

"I know, Harvey, but I swear I–"

It all came rushing back. Just leaving Ms. Evelyn's office, the rows upon rows of closed doors in front of him. The dimmed lights illuminating from the fixtures in the ceiling. The short girl in outrageously tall high heels, far too tall for her tiny body. And her fingers tucking her blue hair behind her ear as she spoke with…

"Son of a bitch… Ed, I need her identified immediately!" Jim shouted, pointing a forceful finger at the body. "I don't care what other cases you have to work on, I need this body in a bag. We'll escort you back to headquarters but I need the results expedited, tonight!"

"Whoa, whoa, partner." Harvey patted Jim on the shoulder, beginning to steer him away from the scene. "What's got you so riled?"

"I've seen her before. At the brothel, when we were there to investigate about Ruby Ventura." Jim spoke through gritted teeth, his hands rolling in and out of fists. "You had already left, but I swear I saw her down the hallway. And I _swear_ , Penguin was with her."

Harvey's eyes widened. "Holy crap… Ed! You heard the man! Let's go people!"

* * *

"What's black and white and caught red handed?"

"Ed, just tell me what you found," Jim grumbled, forcing his voice from his throat. He'd been waiting all night for results, so much so that he had slept at his desk, which is what he had been doing when Ed poked him awake, drool seeping into his sleeve. Harvey settled for a quieter corner in the men's locker room, where he assumably still was. "Thanks, by the way, for pulling an all-nighter."

Ed sucked in a yawn, waving his thankfulness away. "When I get my hands on a good puzzle, I can't sleep until it's done. I managed to identify our newest victim through her fingerprints and she's got quite the track record." He handed Jim the manila folder, which he opened enthusiastically.

Her hair was brown in the photo, nothing close to the bright cobalt he had seen hours beforehand. Her photo stared angrily up at him, wearing an orange jumpsuit, and standing against a lined wall, indicating she was five feet tall. "Julia Murray, age twenty-four. Three counts of prostitution and possession of a controlled substance." He scoured through the pages that described her crimes, her family, her home. "No work history?"

"No, none that I found. I thought that was strange as well."

"Well, since she had a history of prostitution, that's probably what she was still doing but without a paper trail." Jim looked up at Ed, then noticed a plastic evidence bag in his hands, a small, black card sealed inside. "What's that?"

"Oh, yes, sorry. My mind." He laughed, tapping his temple. "I need to go to bed. Anyway, yes, here. I was able to semi reconstruct the black matter from the Ventura autopsy. It's a little hard to read, _but_ …" A slyness sparkled in his eyes as he handed Jim the bag. "Look at the back, too."

With exhausted eyes, Jim squinted until he could read the blue cursive on the front. It only took Jim a moment to jump from his chair, his eyes burning into the evidence bag. "This came from the Ventura autopsy? Ruby Ventura?"

"Yessiree. So, do you get my riddle now?"

Jim turned the bag over, a tired smirk crawling over his lips. "I do, thanks Ed. Don't mention this to anyone around here, OK? I want to keep it on the down low for now."

"To be perfectly honest, Detective, I was going to head home after this." Ed couldn't hold back his second yawn.

"That's great, great. You deserve it. Thanks again." Jim started for the stairs by his desk, evidence bag and Julia's folder in hand, until Ed spoke up once more.

"Oh, I'm also still working on the hair from the Ventura crime scene. There's a few discrepancies that I'm still looking into, and the fibers found at the scene were inconclusive."

"Keep up the good work!" Jim shouted, darting across the room, and throwing the men's locker room door wide open.

Harvey woke with a start, almost falling from the cot stuffed into the corner across from the lockers. His hat was dipped over his eyes, his suit jacket draped over his chest. His shoes were tucked just underneath the bed frame. He sat up with urgency, lifting his hat, but realized there was no danger with a hefty groan.

"Ed identified the woman from last night," Jim announced, sitting on the bed beside him. He handed Harvey the folder, impatiently waiting as his partner continued to still claw himself back into the world of consciousness. "It's her, Harvey. She works at The Tootsie Pop. I knew it was her!"

Tugging on his glasses that sat on the side table, Harvey examined Julia's information. "And you say you saw Penguin there with her that day?"

"I only saw the back of his head but you know there's no mistaking him no matter what angle you look at him." The lighting had been dim, and there was quite a long distance between them that day, but there was no ounce of uncertainty for Jim. He'd recognize that ridiculous hairdo any day.

"Hate to say it Partner but, although the evidence is tempting to consider, there was a significant time difference between when we were at the brothel and last night." Harvey tipped his glasses up to his forehead and massaged the bridge of his nose.

Jim flashed Harvey a toothy grin. "You know, last night I was thinking the same thing. That is, until Ed also gave me this." Jim had been hiding the evidence bag behind his back, just waiting to give his big reveal. He handed the bag over. "It's the so-called chewing tobacco found in Ruby Ventura's mouth."

Harvey lowered his glasses again and read, "The Iceberg Lounge, huh? What a coincidence."

"Yeah, and turn it over."

Harvey did so, then couldn't help but chuckle. "Is that part of a phone number?"

"We still have Penguin's cellphone from when he was arrested. It wouldn't be hard to find out the number to it. Plus, if we can get a handwriting sample from him we can do an analysis. I've got a good feeling about this case. It's way too early to say, but I think we got our guy."

"And, hey, if we convict him that makes your I.O.U. fly right out the window."

"Don't get my hopes up. Let's grab a quick breakfast before we question him."

* * *

 _Author's note - I love all the comments, especially all the speculation! It makes my insides all warm and fuzzy! :D_


	18. Chapter 18 - It's Like Christmas

Chapter 18 - It's Like Christmas

* * *

"Penguin, wake up!"

Oswald heard the words, but only slowly resurfaced back from unconsciousness. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but the creases of the brick wall of his cell. But realization hit him hard and the crick in his unsupported neck made sitting up difficult. He found it less embarrassing to sleep on the farthest bench of the cell, his back to the door, his jacket draped over him, instead of against Gabe's bulging shoulder for all to see like last time. But his spine was paying the consequences of his decision.

High-pitched clanging, metal on metal, vibrated the bars of the cell. "Penguin!"

Oswald swung his legs over and sat up stiffly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. What fresh Hell was awaiting him now? Jim and Bullock were standing at the door, a pair of handcuffs in Bullock's hand. Oswald slipped on his jacket, latching the buttons. He could only imagine what rugged state his hair was in but he could only assume it matched perfectly with the stench rising from his armpits.

"Good morning, gentlemen," Oswald croaked, then cleared his throat to warm it back to working condition. "What's on the agenda for today? Our release, I hope."

"We'll see how this goes," Jim said, unlocking the cage. Oswald walked forward, stepping over Gabe's outstretched legs as he, too, began waking. Bullock slapped the cuffs on, which pinched Oswald's wrists, and lead him to the back of the precinct where the interrogation rooms were held. And as like before, Oswald was quickly handcuffed to the table as soon as he sat down.

"Is it possible for me to get a cup of tea?" he asked, running his tongue along his fuzzy teeth. What he wouldn't give for a shower or at least a tooth brush, but he didn't want to jeopardize his chances of release by asking for too much.

"We don't have any tea," Bullock scoffed, taking a seat on the other side of the table.

Jim set two manila folders in front of him, one much thicker than the other, and Harvey took hold of them possessively. "Coffee OK?"

"Yes, thank you, _Jim_." Oswald said, eyeing Harvey and the way he shook his head. He wasn't a fan of coffee, as Maroni knew, but something was better than nothing.

"We're going to be here a while," Jim assured him. "Might as well." And, without much more explanation, Jim poked his head out, getting a nearby officer's attention.

"How long is a while?" Oswald asked, his fingers fidgeting with the cuffs again. "Have you gotten in touch with Butch yet on Samantha's possible whereabouts?"

"We've got something a bit more interesting to talk about, actually," Bullock teased. He opened the thicker folder but tilted it upward to block Oswald from the information inside. "Oh, yes. Very interesting, Penguin. Nothing like a good ole fashioned interrogation on a freezing Sunday morning. Staying inside to keep warm, nice hot cup of coffee. It's like Christmas."

Oswald swallowed hard, unnerved by Bullock's cheery attitude. Something was definitely wrong. "And what exactly are you interrogating me about? Homicide detectives don't usually care about simple breaking and entering, though it was obviously justified."

"Once you get your little cup of joe, we'll start talking. And by 'we', I mean Jim and I. You're just going to sit back and watch it _all_ unravel in front of those scared little peepers of yours."

Oswald couldn't stop the sweat beginning to drip down his back. What could possibly be inside the folder? His mind raced. Had he taken a wrong turn, a misstep recently? No, he had made sure to cover his tracks with Frankie Carbone and with Fish's newer umbrella boy, Timothy. Hell, even the fisherman he killed for a sandwich sank to the bottom of the river, he made sure of it. But that was only to name a few of his victims. It had been a busy few months, that was for sure.

Jim returned then, setting a paper cup of steaming coffee in front of Oswald.

"Thank you," Oswald said, warming his hands around the cup.

But before Jim could sit, there was a quick knock on the door. With a groan, he eased himself back up and answered it.

"Come on, let's get this show on the road!" Bullock shouted. "I've got bad news to take pleasure in giving out."

"Sorry, Harv," Jim called from the door. "Not today. There's something else you need to do."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bullock stood in a huff, gesturing to Oswald with the folders. "We've got him right where we want him. Let's get started and we'll all feel better afterwards."

He walked toward the door, whispering too softly for Oswald to hear them. Then the door closed and Jim reappeared, folders in hand, taking a seat in Bullock's chair.

"Anyway," Jim started, raising his brows in exasperation. "Let's get started."

"And what was that all about?" Oswald asked before blowing the steam from the cup as if nothing was wrong. Though with Bullock gone, his anxiety level was decreasing. It was just him and his friend now, and whatever news Bullock was talking about was certainly going to be easier coming from Jim.

"Where were you Tuesday night?" Jim asked, keeping the folders closed which were tucked under his hands, his fingers interlocked casually. "After we came back from the farm."

 _An old woman strangled her husband to death in my club. Then I blew her brains out with a shotgun._

Oswald shrugged. "Worked for a while longer at the Lounge, then went home and went to bed. Gabe drove me home around midnight, you can ask him yourself." Good ole Gabe, he had his usefulness from time to time.

"So between the hours of midnight and two A.M. you were home?"

"That's correct… and when are you going to tell me what this is all about?" he grumbled. "I do hate surprises."

"Does the name Ruby Ventura ring a bell?"

Oswald rolled his eyes, growing annoyed. "Should it?" He had his connections, knew names so obscure no one would expect him to know. But he couldn't recall ever crossing paths with someone by that name.

"How about Julia Murray?"

"Jim, Samantha is not going to find herself. So, if you're going to hold me against my will, at least get to the point."

"How about a brothel called _The Tootsie Pop_?"

Oswald froze for a moment, before quickly saying, "That sounds like a copyright lawsuit waiting to happen, if you ask me." Jim knew something, he had to. There was absolutely no other explanation for knowing that name.

Opening the thinner of the folders, Jim shifted through the papers there until he found a photo, which he promptly slid over and tapped on the woman's face. "So, you've never seen her before?"

 _Tawny._

Sans blue hair, it was a young Tawny without any shred of doubt. She was wearing an orange jumpsuit, staring daggers into the camera lens. Oswald was curious as to what exactly she had been arrested for. But now the question was how much should he tell Jim, especially when it seemed he knew something about their connection? Had Tawny been caught trying to go with Noah, been arrested and told everything?

"I've seen her around the club," Oswald lied, sliding the photo back over. "I don't know her name."

"And you've never seen her inside that brothel?" Jim growled. "See, I think you're lying, Penguin. I think you have visited her. In fact, I think you were there Thursday afternoon."

"I have no interest in prostitutes, Detective." Oswald kept an edge to his voice, masking his nervousness. "Is that why you're interrogating me? For you to make accusations about my personal life while there's a woman missing?"

"There's an APB out for her. We're looking. I saw you at the brothel. A different case brought us there and I saw you with her." Jim tapped the photo again, shoving it forward. "I saw you go into a room with her. There are security cameras in that building. It won't be hard to get a warrant."

"Even if I was with her, which I clearly was not, why does this matter to you?"

Jim opened the folder again, pulling out another photo. "That's why it matters." He lifted the photo to Oswald's eyes. "This is Julia Murray, or what's left of her, found last night in a parking lot."

Oswald swallowed, the lump in his throat settling hard against his Adam's apple. There was that blue hair again, wild and dripping with blood. It was the only recognizable feature in the photo. Yes, he'd seen his share of corpses, most of them from his own hand, but he couldn't remember ever seeing one so… twisted. Her head was nothing more than a slab of chaos and it almost made his stomach turn, _almost_.

How had this escalated so quickly? He hadn't heard from Tawny since they met that day. Never in his wildest dreams would he have guessed she would meet such an untimely demise, with it quite possibly being his fault.

 _She told me her name was Tawny. Liar._

But wait. He had given her until yesterday, Saturday, to be with Noah and then Saturday night she winds up dead? He knew Noah to be an abuser, but was he capable of doing this? Could he do this to Samantha? Had he already?

"I need to make a phone call," Oswald said, pushing Jim's hand and the photo away.

"I'm aware that you were locked up all night, so there's no possibility that you could've done it. However, the connections between Ms. Murray and," Jim opened the thicker folder and revealed a different photo, a young woman on a metal slab, her Y incision peeking out from the sheet, dried gashes running the length of her shoulders, "Ms. Ventura are getting stronger and stronger. So, I can't help but think you're not working alone."

"I've never seen _Ms. Ventura_ before in my life," Oswald insisted, keeping his eyes away from Tawny's crime scene photo.

"Are you sure? Because this was found at the scene." Removing a paperclip from the edge of the folder, he pulled out a plastic evidence bag. Oswald recognized the card immediately.

"Those cards are for the taking at the club," he explained. "Anyone who wants one is welcomed to have one. It's good for business. Everyone has a business card nowadays, even the police."

 _Please don't be what I think it is._

Jim turned the bag around and the red ink, written in Oswald's handwriting just for Sam, stared up at him. His jaw clenched almost desperately. It was Noah, it had to be. If only he could get to a phone…

"It looks like a phone number, doesn't it?" Jim asked. "Since we have you here, we thought to cross check those few numbers with your cellphone. I think you can guess the rest."

Oswald took a sip of his coffee, wondering if anyone made a good cup nowadays. He didn't dare respond.

"So, two sex workers from the same brothel end up dead within a few days or each other," Jim summarized, tucking the photos and card back into their respective folders. "And you happen to have some sort of connection with both of them. Then last night we find you breaking into another woman's apartment that had obvious signs of foul play. You can't blame me for being skeptical here."

"You realize that if I even thought about jeopardizing Falcone's club, he'd skin me alive. Samantha is my top performer. I can't even begin to imagine how much money the club lost yesterday… Why would I want to hurt her?"

"I believe that's the question of the day."

"Jim, for the last time, I did _not–_ "

The door opened behind Oswald, though no matter how far he craned his neck, he couldn't see who it was.

"Gordon, you're going to want to see this," a man said.

"Alvarez, I'm kind of in the middle of something here," Jim snapped.

"This can't wait, trust me."

Jim stood, snatching the folders from the table, and went to the door. They spoke in whispers, just as before. Oswald took another sip of his coffee to stay calm, the chalky taste caking his tongue, but his leg was beginning to bob. If he couldn't get to a phone, perhaps Gabe could have better luck with his simpleton ways. He would be less expectant to deceive, wouldn't he?

"Thanks," Jim said and the door closed. "Well, Penguin. Things just got a lot more interesting." He took his seat again, but the folders were gone. "Remember yesterday when you mentioned a bloody knife at Samantha O'Shea's apartment?"

Oswald paused for a moment, afraid of the question, afraid of the reason behind it being asked. "Yes, I do."

"Why are your fingerprints all over it?"


	19. Chapter 19 - Baseball, Cold Showers

Chapter 19 - Baseball, Cold Showers

* * *

"Sorry, Harv," Jim called from the door. "Not today. There's something else you need to do."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Bullock stood in a huff, gesturing to Oswald with the folders. "We've got him right where we want him. Let's get started and we'll all feel better afterwards." He stomped over to his partner, then whispered, "You're killing me here."

"Yeah, yeah, I know." Jim took the folders from him. "But Evelyn from the brothel just arrived and needs to speak to us so–"

"Way ahead of you, Jimbo." Harvey was out the door before Jim could blink. There was nothing sweeter than the possibility of Penguin being hauled off to Blackgate, maybe even Arkham, but, in this case, he was willing to make an exception.

Walking out in the openness of the GCPD, Harvey saw Evelyn's back as she sat at the corner of his desk, the slender curve of her waist still perfectly seen under her wool coat. He was no stranger to prostitutes, that was for damn sure, but there was something about a female pimp that made his blood race. After checking his breath and fixing his tie, he trotted over, up the stairs and to his desk.

"Good morning, Evelyn," Harvey said, touching her shoulder lightly to gain her attention. She turned, her icy glare still quite prominent. But her dark red lips pouted, just for a moment, and it only made Harvey think what she could do with them. The gray roots in her curled hair that had been present during their last meeting had been colored.

"Weren't there two of you before?" Evelyn asked, crossing her legs.

Harvey almost sighed, seeing the smooth skin of her thigh under her open coat. She was wearing a skirt again, despite the brisk weather, and her long legs only seemed longer with the cherry red pumps on her feet. This was going to be one of the hardest interviews he'd ever have, in more ways than one.

"My partner is busy at the moment, Ms. Evelyn," Harvey said, sitting in his chair. It took all he had to not rest his hand on her knee, which was only inches away. "How can I help you today?" He made sure to look her in the eye.

"I haven't stopped thinking about your visit since it happened."

"Oh?" Was she reciprocating? Was this a dream? "Why is that?" Dinner, drinks, then some late-night horizontal cha-cha was in their future, no doubt.

"Seeing that photo of Ruby, dead on a slab." She exaggerated a shiver. "I've been having trouble sleeping."

"Oh, of course, yes, Ruby." Maybe still dinner and drinks?

"So, I decided to take a look for myself, do some digging." She rolled her eyes. "Since it would take too long to get a warrant, I figured I'd give you guys a little nudge." Harvey hadn't noticed that she was holding something until she handed the unlabeled VHS tape to him.

 _If this is a secret, sexy tape just for me…_

"It's the surveillance tape from Ruby's last day, with her client at the front desk. There's no sound, though."

 _Bullock, just get your head out of your ass for once. You're going to Hell for that._

"Well, thank you." He flipped the tape around in his hands, the clanging sound of the plastic calming his loins. "You wouldn't mind if we watched it together, would you? I may have questions."

At a passive flick of Evelyn's wrist, Harvey retrieved the television on its stand from Essen's office and swiveled it over, plugging it into the power strip under his desk. It was pathetic how much he felt like a peppy Golden Retriever, doing all it could to please its master, but Evelyn's sweet legs couldn't be denied. He sat back in his chair, inserted the tape and hit play on the remote.

The screen filled with static at first, but then the lobby came into focus in black and white. The angle was from the back corner of the lobby, the entrance to the private rooms immediately below, the front desk to the right, and the receptionists' deep cleavage behind the desk. She was reading some smutty novel and popping her gum when a man entered, his neck deep in the collar of a wool coat. His light hair was brushed to the side, his body medium build, possibly close to six feet tall. Without sound, his conversation with the receptionist proved difficult to comprehend, Harvey doing his best to read their lips but failing.

The receptionist handed the man a beaten notebook over the counter and he wrote inside it for a moment while she picked up and spoke on the phone.

"Is that Ruby's notebook, the one you gave us?" Harvey asked.

Evelyn nodded.

Harvey made note of the timestamp in the lower left corner of the screen on a Post-It. He'd take the notebook out of evidence later to have a sample of handwriting, remembering a time slot was filled out for each John's entry.

Ruby entered the frame then, wearing tight shorts and a tank top. Her body language screamed flirting, her hand running down the length of the man's arm, her body trembling with tiny giggles as they spoke. She then said something to the receptionist, placing her hands on the desk to lean over and that was when Harvey noticed.

"That's an interesting ring," he said, pausing the tape. "Did she wear it all the time? We noticed a tan line around her finger, but there was no ring found." He'd seen it before… but where?

"I think she'd been engaged for a few months. I only knew that because she never _shut up_ about it." Evelyn paused, then cleared her throat. "Not that I speak ill of the dead or anything. Her chatterbox mouth is probably what I'll miss most about her…"

"Do you need a minute?" Harvey asked, hesitantly laying a hand on her forearm, but she shook it off immediately.

"Just play the damn tape."

Harvey, the dutiful puppy he was, resumed the tape. Ruby and the receptionist spoke for another few moments before she took the man's hand and led him away.

"He's in the room with her for a few hours, if you want to fast-forward," Evelyn said, a hint of disgust in her voice.

But Harvey paused the tape again. "Look, I know I asked you to stay but if it's upsetting you–" Her scowl bore into him, and he quickly changed his tune. "If we have any questions, we can contact you."

"He was a regular," Evelyn commented almost nonchalantly, scooting off the desk. Her skirt rode up her thigh from the friction.

His breath hitched. He crossed his legs, feeling he was growing too noticeable.

 _Baseball, cold showers. Grandma Bullock naked in a rain storm._

Evelyn smoothed out her skirt and coat, snapping the buttons closed and pulling a pair of gloves from the coat pocket. "I'd seen him around with some of the other girls. Though, coincidentally, I haven't seen him since Ruby." She gestured to the television, slipping on the red, leather gloves. "I hope you have no need to call me. But, if you do, have your warrant ready. Goodbye, Detective. You can keep the tape."

Evelyn left without waiting for a response from Harvey, which left a bad taste in his mouth. She was fine as hell, but she had the personality of an angry grizzly bear mama… which was still strangely a turn on for him. He hadn't been this confused since Scottie, speaking his mind about his fears of dying alone, then miraculously saving her from drowning in the pool that she almost died in when she was a child. Except now, it was a sassy pimp of two murdered hookers, with trust issues. Normalcy never came to Harvey on a satin pillow like crazy did.

He sighed, sitting back in his chair, and rewound and resumed the tape, watching the man enter the brothel again. He didn't seem nervous being there. He made small talk with the receptionist; he cracked a joke, she laughed. He was completely calm, just as a regular would be. And then when Ruby came in, they talked, and she placed her hand on the desk again. Harvey paused the tape.

 _I've seen that ring before…_

The diamond itself was a little small and pear-shaped, nothing fancy. He'd seen it, or one like it, recently. Had it just been someone on the street as he did grunt work with Jim? No, he'd seen it by itself, not on a finger. It… it had been in an evidence bag.

He rewound and played the scene again, the man walking in through the front door.

It was in an evidence bag. What did it come in with? He could picture a uniformed officer holding it, showing it to… to Jim. It was in a box with other items: shredded paper, a coffee cup, bloody clothes.

 _My brain has turned to slop. I need to go back to bed._


	20. Chapter 20 - Like Old Times

Chapter 20 - Like Old Times

* * *

Noah killed the engine inside the garage, sitting back in the driver's seat of his brother's car, and sighed. The burden of having another girl to deal with was finally lifted and he wouldn't be making that same mistake again. Sammy was the only girl for him, now and forever. No more late-night prowling, finding a girl and letting out his anger. He vowed, promised, whatever issues he had in the future, he'd deal with them with her. If he needed to let off some steam, he'd do it with her because he knew that, no matter how pissed he could be trying to deal with their relationship, he could never kill her. Slap, punch, maim, torture, yes. But kill, no. She was too special to him. If she needed to know her place, however, he would remind her until she got it right.

Getting out of the car, he stretched his achy legs, the satisfying pop of his spine rejuvenating him. It had been a long, long night. Bed was calling his name but wouldn't be complete without his girl by his side.

Sammy was crumpled up near the door that lead into the house, several blankets draped across her shoulders. Roman must've felt bad and covered her up. That was fine. He was a good brother for taking care of his future sister-in-law.

Noah shuffled over to her, squatting down. She was so peaceful as she slept, the drugs knocking her out quite nicely. He touched her cool cheek lightly, then leaned in and kissed her motionless lips, urging them to move. But, of course, she didn't reciprocate. If only there was a way to keep her in line, keep her on a short leash, but still allow her to love him unconditionally. And if only she saw it that way, it would make his life so much easier.

The door opened, Roman towering over them both, two mugs in his hands. That same annoying, worried look was plastered all over his face and Noah couldn't help but shake his head.

"I thought I heard the car come in," his brother mumbled, then handed him one of the mugs. "I made coffee. Just a bit of cream, right? When was the last time you slept?"

"I woke up late yesterday, so I'm not exhausted yet. Thanks." Noah took the mug, blowing off the hovering layer of steam before taking a small sip. "Your car is clean. The tarp came in handy."

Roman glanced down at Sammy, then sighed. He entered the garage, closing the door behind him. "Yeah, about that–"

"Don't fucking lecture me, Ro," Noah snapped. "I'm not in the mood. I just killed a girl with a hammer. You know how long that high lasts? Not as long as you think." A strange pressure was building between his eyes, a sort of unprovoked anger he had felt only a few times before, right before he bit and killed the others.

"Noah, just take a breath." Roman lay a hand on his brother's shoulder. "I just want to talk."

Head swimming, jaw clenched, Noah's hands shook as it cupped the warmth of his coffee. He was winding up quickly, his heart racing, almost terrifyingly so. "Don't you dare judge me. If I wasn't this way you'd be divorced and poor like everybody else in the world, just think about that." He whipped a finger at his face, almost poking his cheek.

"Yeah, and as my thanks I gave you half the insurance money," Roman said, pushing his finger away. "Now will you just let me talk?"

"You know I can't help this!" Noah screamed, gesturing to himself. He fingered one of the long scabs formed on the side of his face, feeling rather satisfied when it peeled away, leaving the open wound to burn. "I can't stay in control all the time, so I need to find other ways to regain it…"

"Dude, I know. Who helped you bury all those dead animals in the backyard when we were growing up? Haven't I always been there for you? I… won't necessarily always help you with the physical aspects but I'm always here to be your shoulder to cry on, right?"

Roman had always been there, that was for sure. Especially that one summer evening, free from school until September, the two of them venturing into the forest preserve a few miles away. Noah hadn't remembered picking up the rock, but before he knew it the squirrel was twitching at his feet, its spine twisted and snapped in several different places. The two boys stood over it, watching it writhe.

"You have to kill it," Roman had said. "Put it out of its misery."

And Noah did, the rock in his hand soon bloody, the squirrel's head flattened and embedded in the ground. He threw it in a nearby pond, and stood to watch it sink to the bottom, tossing the rock in with it.

 _I crushed its skull. Almost like Julia._

"It felt so good using that hammer, Ro," Noah whispered, calming down just thinking about the squirrel's grey matter seeping into the mud, then Julia's own soaking in her blood at the bottom of the tub. "It felt like old times but so much more than that. It felt amazing."

"That's what I want to talk to you about. You're starting to worry me. You haven't been this trigger happy in years and now suddenly you're killing people again?" Roman took a sip of his drink, then sighed, giving his brother a knowing look. "How many girls has this been?"

"I don't know. I've lost count." It didn't surprise Noah that Roman had a suspicious feeling of his late night activities. But the number was irrelevant. He just wanted that need to be silenced, no matter how long it would be. He'd take any girl he wanted, any time he wanted, if he could find peace just for a moment.

"You lost count after a couple, or lost count after a dozen? Or more?"

Noah shrugged, then chugged down the rest of his coffee. His throat seared, the pain rising up into his jaw and down into his gut. But he felt alive.

"How about getting sleep today, and we'll talk more afterwards?" He took the empty mug from his hands that still trembled. "Just relax, sleep as long as you want. I already called off work today. I'll watch Sam."

With a spastic shake of his head, Noah pushed Roman from the doorway and entered the home. "No, I have to clean the bathroom first."

He trudged through the pristine kitchen, the striped tile fueling his now growing headache. Just to the left of the kitchen, tucked away behind a wall, just across from the living room, was the laundry room. He knew the layout of the home after living there in his younger years, until his parents met an untimely demise, but that night was such a blur. From the cabinet above the washer, he pulled out the gallon of bleach and a bottle of bathroom cleaner.

Roman called his name from the kitchen, the clanging of the mugs going into the sink echoed in the emptiness of the room. When Noah tried to push past him again to get back to the garage, he was stopped.

"Noah, you're tired. You're not thinking straight." He placed his hands on his shoulders, keeping a firm grasp. "Take a shower, relax, take a nap."

"But Ro–"

Roman took the bottles from his hands, setting them on the counter. He then hugged him tightly, squeezing a strained gasp from Noah's throat. He always felt so small in Roman's grasp, despite their height sizes differing by only a few inches. He was comfortable and safe. He was the father figure he had always lacked. Noah hugged back, his fingers lining the center of his spine.

"Ro… I'm sorry I got you into this."

"Like you said… it's like old times." A chuckle vibrated against Noah's cheek. "You know I love you. And I've always said that I'll help you out. You're my brother, and it's my job to see that you're OK. And right now, I'm telling you to sleep. Cleaning up can wait."

Noah sank deep into his brother's hold and sighed. The thought of finally resting his head on a pillow did feel great. He felt he could sleep forever, even with the itching feeling of the blood-soaked tub in the garage left unattended.

"As for your urges," Roman continued, giving his brother one last squeeze before breaking the hug. "You brought Sam here for a reason, didn't you?"

"I brought her because we had a fight and I didn't want to leave her unattended in the apartment. What if the cops came? I could've been arrested."

"No offense, Bro, but if you continue whatever path you're on, you're going to be arrested anyway."

"Besides, I already promised myself I wouldn't hurt anyone else anymore. Since there's no way I could ever kill Sammy. I'll… take my frustration out on her from now on, I guess. If you think I should…"

"I'll be sure to knock."


	21. Chapter 21 - Confess

Chapter 21 - Confess

* * *

"Harvey, you've been staring at that tape all morning."

Jim watched his partner from his desk. His eyes hadn't left the television screen, Ruby Ventura entering and exiting the frame on a continuous loop. On his own desk were files strewn about from both the Ventura and Murray cases as he organized the best offense to finally take Penguin down.

Harvey paused the tape, jutting a finger at Ruby's ring. "Where have I seen that before!"

"Does it have anything to do with the case?"

"Do you think I'd be sitting here like an idiot if it didn't?" Then Harvey quickly added, "Don't answer that. But seriously, Jim, you've seen that ring before, yeah?" Ruby left the frame with the man, then the tape whirled backward and the man entered the lobby again.

Jim sighed, setting down his pen, and massaged the bridge of his nose. Despite their breakthrough with Penguin, and Lee's comforting presence, sleep had still avoided his racing mind. "Usually it's me that obsesses over the smaller details with you being the one trying to reel me in. Plus, if you keep this up, you're going to ruin the tape."

"Don't remind me. Have you heard from Ed about the DNA from the Ventura scene?" Harvey asked, just as the John entered the lobby again, greeting the receptionist.

"No, I haven't seen him all morning." Jim couldn't help but watch the screen as well, making note of the man being left handed as he wrote inside Ruby's notebook. "He mentioned yesterday that there were a few discrepancies with it, so I'm sure he's working on that. He can't go too long without solving a puzzle."

"He better hurry up so we can convict Penguin already. I think he's the one stinking up the whole place." Harvey mashed the rewind button again. "Speaking of Penguin, have you heard anything from the unis searching his apartment?"

A low growl vibrated in Jim's throat. Ripping off a blank piece from his writing pad, he crumpled it into a ball and threw it at Harvey's head. "So, when I told you, immediately after they called here, that they found weapons and long hair strands, you didn't hear me?"

"What? They didn't call," Harvey scoffed.

"It was probably an hour ago now!"

"Look, if I don't find out where I've seen this ring before, I'm going to lose my mind. And you think I'm difficult to be around now? Just wait, Jimbo."

"Did you ever think that maybe, just _maybe_ , it's just a ring? I'm sure there's thousands just like it in Gotham."

Harvey glanced up above Jim's head, then turned his attention back to the screen. "Ed, you better give me some good news."

"Hey, doesn't that look like the same ring taken from the O'Shea apartment?" Ed adjusted his glasses, leaning in for a closer look at the screen, all the while staying at Jim's side. "I wonder…"

Harvey's head snapped up, his face a mixture of surprise and complete hatred.

Stifling a laugh, Jim pursed his lips and glanced back from his partner to Ed, whose cheerful smile began to falter. He began to apologize sincerely, but Harvey only stood in a huff, dropping the television remote on the floor with a thunk, and walked away.

"While you're up, go get the O'Shea box from evidence!" Jim called to him, receiving a middle finger in return.

"I'm sorry, Detective! I–"

"Ed, don't worry about it," Jim chuckled, patting his friend on the back. "He's been trying to place that ring since yesterday. Without you, it probably would've been another a few days until he figured it out. He'll get over it." When Ed's frown didn't lift, Jim patted him again. "Tell me what you've got."

With a meek smile, Ed set several manila folders onto Jim's desk. "We've got quite the doozy on our hands. First off, the discrepancies I talked about yesterday–"

"Here, take a seat," Jim offered, gesturing to Harvey's empty chair.

"Oh, why thank you." Ed swiveled it over and sat, his smile beaming now. "Anyway, there were a few irregularities but after seeing that footage," he nodded toward the television, "it all makes sense now. So, first off, here's the match to the hair found on Ruby Ventura." He picked a folder from the middle of the pile and handed it to Jim, who opened it and, after a few seconds, his eyes widened with amazement.

"It's him," he breathed, then glanced up at the television just as Ruby entered the frame. Jim scrambled over and paused the tape. How lucky could they possibly be? It almost seemed too easy, almost like a dream.

"David Noah White," Ed announced, shuffling back to Jim's side. "He would be almost thirty years old now, but legally he's been dead for five. Police found his car crashed into the river. Never found the body. Apparently, there were accusations that he killed his parents but because of his death, it never made it to court."

"Well, looks like his ghost has been quite busy. I wonder why so suddenly he's been leaving evidence. There was nothing left on the previous victims." Jim played the tape again but in slow motion, watching as Ruby joked with her client.

"People get careless after a while, I guess."

"So, Samantha O'Shea has been living with this guy? He was obviously keeping his past a secret."

"Mm-hmm, I took the liberty of cross checking the DNA from the Ventura scene with what was found at the apartment, since their names matched and I had a hunch. It's definitely him. Though, if you read his family background, he has an identical twin brother," Ed ran his finger through the file, until he found the name, "Roman Benjamin White. He was accused of being his brother's accomplice in the parenticide, but wasn't convicted." Ed scuttled back to the desk, pulling out another folder and handing it to Jim. "That could quite possibly be him since twins share the same DNA. If I had a fingerprint from the brother, however, I could do an analysis. But there aren't any on file for him, for some reason."

Jim opened the folder, sighing. "How convenient that things go missing in this place." Immediately Jim took note of the brother's different colored eyes. He then studied the tape as it played. "You never do get a good look at his eyes in the tape, even if it _is_ in black and white."

Jim and Harvey had seen him as well, but it had only been in passing that day in the club. But Penguin had seen him, spoke to him, spent time with him. He was the only possible witness to claim that Noah White was alive. And he had just been informally charged with the murders of Ruby Ventura, Julia Murray and four other women. With the newest evidence coming to light, Jim knew it was time to have another talk.

Harvey was going to throw a fit.

"Also, on a semi-related note," Ed said, taking another folder from the desk and handing it to Jim. "The blood on the knife found in the O'Shea apartment does belong to a woman. However, I'm not able to find an owner to it since it doesn't belong to any of the victims and there's nothing on file for Ms. O'Shea."

"Of course there isn't," Jim grumbled.

"But Mr. Penguin's prints are definitely on it. There's no mistake about that."

"Yeah, that's what confuses me the most." What reason would Penguin have to work with Noah, especially since it seemed logical that he wouldn't want to harm one of his performers? Penguin may have worked for Falcone, but if he acted the same way he did around Maroni, he was easily intimidated by his boss. Although he backstabbed Fish, Falcone was one with more money, more influence, more power. Would he dare go behind his back?

 _The business card points to Penguin. The DNA points to Noah. The knife points to Penguin. The video tape points to Noah._

"Thanks, Ed," Jim mumbled, closing the several files in his hand, losing himself in his own mind. Once Harvey was back from the evidence room, they'd talk with Penguin once again. No more secrets, no more holding back. Penguin needed to let go of whatever pride he was still holding onto.

"No, thank you, Detective," Ed emphasized, his smile only growing wider. "Since you asked for these to be expedited, I'll go ahead and analyze the rest of the evidence found at the O'Shea apartment now. The evidence from Mr. Penguin's apartment should be coming in any minute now, so I'll be taking a look at that too." With one shy wave of his hand, he scampered off.

"Thanks again," Jim repeated, ejecting the tape from the VCR. As he turned to sit back at his desk, he glanced over to the row of holding cells. A beef of a man was talking to Penguin. What was his name again? Bill…Bob…Butch! Why was no one stopping him?

Dropping the evidence at his desk, he rushed to them, and they shushed just as Penguin noticed him approaching.

"Hey, no talking to prisoners," Jim growled, his hands firm on his hips.

Butch held up his hands in sarcastic submission. A smug smile was plastered on his face, only fueling Jim's annoyance. "Hey, no harm, no foul. Though, to be fair, if you allowed my boss his one phone call, I wouldn't have to come looking for him."

"Well, you found him, now get out."

"So terse! Alright, alright, I'm leaving." Butch glanced over to Penguin, just for a brief moment and they locked eyes. "I've got things to take care of anyway. See you around."

Jim watched him leave, his stride purposeful but quick, then drew his attention to Penguin. He was clutching the bars of his cage, his lips held tight in a thin line.

"Is there something I can help you with, Jim?"

"Actually, there is. Once Harvey comes back, we're going to have another nice chat." Jim's grin was forced, but only from exhaustion. Despite the fact that several women were dead and a serial killer was still on the loose, he had to admit he'd enjoy listening to Penguin spill his soul. After having to rely on him so many times in the past, it was nice to watch him squirm a bit.

"I'm looking forward to it." Penguin smiled politely but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Partner," came Harvey's voice in Jim's ear.

Jim jumped in his shoes before turning around and coming face to face with another photo in an evidence bag. He exhaled a chuckle, taking the bag and examining it closer. He glanced back at Penguin, still staring at him, then gestured Harvey to walk back to the desks.

"Where did you get this?" Jim asked once they were out of earshot.

"Got stopped by a uni on my way to the Evidence Room. A patrolman found Julia Murray's car parked near a club in uptown. That was in the glove box. Look on the back. I think Penguin left another little note."

The black and white photo seemed almost amusing as Penguin and Noah stared each other down at a table at the Iceberg Lounge. A wad of cash was in Penguin's hand. Noah's hand was balled into a fist. Jim turned the photo over, reading the address there. The street name felt familiar somehow.

"The address is the O'Shea place," Harvey said, taking the O'Shea file from Jim's desk and double checking. "So, why would a photo of Penguin and White be in a dead hooker's car?"

"We need to talk to Penguin again. The evidence Ed handed over after you left rips this case wide open. I hate to admit it, and it may be too early to even think about it, but the possibility of Penguin being our guy is now… slightly less plausible."

Harvey growled, slapping the file down on the desk. "But Christmas, Jim! I said it was going to be Christmas! Where's your holiday cheer?"

"I want to put him away just as much as you do, but there's very, _very_ strong evidence that he," Jim slammed his finger down on Noah's black and white face, "is it. Photos and notes can't compete with DNA, Harv. And his DNA, or his twin brother's, is all over Ruby Ventura." Jim nodded at Harvey's gawk. "Yeah, we're dealing with twins here." Sifting through the mountain of files on his desk, he handed over Roman's file.

"You don't know, maybe she didn't shower after he visited her at the brothel," Harvey speculated, not taking his eyes off the file.

"And what's the likelihood of that, honestly? Especially since she had a fiancée."

"Yeah about that… That was the second thing I was going to tell you." Harvey sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Another uni stopped me, because I'm just so damn popular. Juan Martinez was found across town. He'd been staying with a friend. Friend went out for a while and came back to Juan in the tub, needles in his arms. He left a note, saying he couldn't go on without her."

Jim was silent for a moment. He shook his head, closed his eyes. "Whether it's Penguin or Noah, we need to stop whoever has done all this. He's ruining more lives than he thinks. We need to go talk to Penguin again."

"After you," Harvey offered, collecting the folders from the desk, still reading through them as he walked.

Jim trudged back down to the holding cells. Penguin was sitting on the bench, leaned over with his hands on his face. Jim clicked the handcuffs on the metal bars to gain his attention. Penguin jumped.

"Are those still necessary?" Penguin asked, gestured to the handcuffs. "They're very uncomfortable and we both know my physicality is not exactly intimidating."

"Police protocol," was all Jim said, unlocking the door.

Penguin stepped forward, his wrists limp out in front of him and winced as the metal tightened around his bones. The smell creeping from him was growing unbearable and Jim hurried him from the cage, pushing him forward to the interrogation room, but still aware of his bad knee. Penguin may have been a sociopathic murderer, but Jim wasn't one to take advantage of others' disabilities.

As before, each man took their place at the cold table, the snapping of the handcuffs echoing off the bare walls. No drink was offered; no witty banter was made. The manila folders for Ruby Ventura, Julia Murray, Noah White and Roman White were laid out nicely in front of the detectives. Jim spoke first.

"There's been a few developments since we last talked, Penguin."

"I'm sure none of it is good news." Penguin's back was straight, his clear eyes boring deep into Jim, making him wonder if Penguin still considered them to be friends.

"Our goal for today," Harvey began, a smile creeping to the surface, "is for you to spill the beans on _everything_ if you want the chance to ever get out of this place."

"I've already told you everything I know, aside from personal information that I'd rather keep private."

"Sorry, no can do." Harvey gestured to the Julia Murray file and Jim opened it, unclipping the black and white surveillance photo from the Iceberg Lounge and slid it in front of Penguin. The color noticeably left the underboss's face.

"Where did you get that?" Penguin asked, his eyes not able to leave the photo.

"You tell us. Where do you think we found it?"

Penguin was silent for well over a minute, his eyes darting as he seemingly thought of a good answer, most likely one that was the least embarrassing. His hands flexed in and out of fists. He nibbled nervously on his bottom lip.

"Just tell the truth," Jim said, softer than he meant, but he needed that information circling around and around in his mind. "That's all we want. People are being killed out there. I know that's not necessarily a problem for you but–"

"Jim, let me make one thing _quite_ clear. I am not a monster. Things don't happen just for the sake of… being done. There are reasons for everything. I have no reason to kill these women. In fact…" Penguin's voice trailed off, his lips barely moving as he mumbled the rest of his sentence.

"Speak up!" Harvey snapped.

Penguin rolled his eyes, exhaling deeply. "Yes, I lied, alright? I knew her."

"There's no big surprise there."

"She told me her name was Tawny Jones. I hired her for a job." Penguin slid the photo back to Jim, obviously uncomfortable having it so close to him. "No, I did no sleep with her. Just being inside the room made me itchy."

"Don't knock it until you try it," Harvey teased. "What'd you hire her for?"

"To seduce Noah White. I had no idea she would be dead, seemingly by his hand, just days later. If I had known, I certainly wouldn't have asked her."

The words seemed so matter-of-fact, Jim could've sworn he heard him wrong. "To seduce him?"

Harvey's eyes squinted as he also tried to make sense of it. "Is this like some sort of buddy bachelor party game?"

The bridge of Penguin's nose was turning pink, his lips puckered in annoyance. "It's… complicated."

"No, no, no," Harvey chuckled, jabbing a finger in his prisoner's direction. "You don't get to say that anymore."

"Oswald," Jim started, the name feeling too bizarre for his tongue. But reaching to Penguin's softer side was the only way to get him to talk. If he thought they were best friends, then he'd be his best friend for the remainder of the interrogation if need be. He'd do it for all the other Ruby Venturas and Julia Murrays out there that were at risk of meeting a similar fate. "Please. We need to know. Just tell the truth. We won't judge, right, Harv?" His elbow nudged into his partner's side.

Harvey hesitated, but managed to force out, "Yeah, no judgement."

The freckles speckled across Penguin's nose popped as blush engulfed his face, before he bowed his head. His hands balled into shaking fists. He was so tense, his strained muscles seen through the layers of his clothing. He mumbled again, too soft to hear.

" _Please_ ," Harvey growled.

"I wanted their relationship to end." Penguin's head snapped up, tears teasing the corners of his eyes. "There, I feel completely foolish now. Are you happy? I hired her to seduce Noah White in the hopes that Samantha would find out and dump him. If I had known all of this would happen, I would've just killed him myself."

Jim wiped his callused fingers up and down the line of his jaw, massaging away a knowing smile. Things were finally starting to make sense. He knew the reason for helping out Samantha O'Shea wasn't just because she was a good performer. He knew Penguin's reaction to her when she entered the Lounge that day was a nervous kind of infatuation that only someone as awkward as Penguin could muster. Now that he was finally telling the truth, things were starting to connect. Jim wouldn't push Penguin much further on the subject if he didn't want him to clam up from embarrassment again. Harvey, on the other hand…

"If you love her so much, why are your fingerprints on the bloody knife in her apartment?" Harvey blurted, obviously enjoying watching Penguin squirm. He smiled at Jim, who glared and dug his elbow into his side in return.

Penguin stammered, starting a sentence then abandoning it, starting another only to abandon it as well. "It's… Well, I… Um."

"How about start from the beginning?" Jim offered. "Start from here." He lifted the photo of the two men glaring at each other from opposite sides of the black and white table. "We won't interrupt anymore, right, Harv?" He eyed his partner, suddenly feeling like an old married couple trying to discipline their child. His stomach turned.

With an exasperated sigh, Harvey agreed.

Penguin's lips turned into a frustrated pout and he sat silent for another few moments until his mouth relaxed. His body slumped in his chair and he sighed. "After you two left, we talked for a while. Samantha had forgotten her payment from her performance the night before…"


End file.
